Star Trek: Enemy Reborn
by RelayerTwo
Summary: John Fredrick Paxton dies in prison forty years after the Federation united a coalition of planets and Terra Prime has waited for the moment. An interspecies team of investigators are tasked with solving a bizarre string of murders connected to a high ranking Vulcan Councilmember. Star Trek: I don't own any part of it and wish I did.
1. Chapter 1

San Francisco

12/21/2199 – United Earth Calendar

Nightfall, and chill northern winds gusting across San Francisco Bay rapidly dropped temperatures over the city. The sudden cold snap went unnoticed by a Vulcan woman crouched behind the rooftop parapet of a major Starfleet contractor. Partially protected by huge environmental machinery, she pointed a sensor device at the penthouse window across the busy boulevard and found the readings unsatisfactory. She plucked a communicator from her belt and secured a channel to high orbit. "Mister Ragner, where is the surveillance data?"

"I'm working on it, Major." The swinish Tellarite comp-tech darted his hairy fingers across a complex set of colorful keypad sensors aboard the Federation Starship Shenandoah NCC-4010 in geosynchronous orbit overhead. "Apparently, the subject activated a privacy shield inside the room."

"Defeat it quickly, Lieutenant," she calmly replied. "Before something happens in there."

Reaching back in her last moments, the human female grabbed the headboard with one hand and surrendered to forces beyond her control. Her cosmetically painted face flushed with blood and hazel eyes rolled under thick black lashes. The rising moans escaping her ruby smeared mouth sounded painful.

The distinguished Vulcan watched dispassionately, his dark expressionless eyes never shifted under bangs of lustrous gray. Dressed in long robes of subtle tan print, he sat silently in a chair at the end of the bed once again fascinated by human weaknesses. A study in focus, as if commanded to observe the entire episode of human degradation.

Ignorant of his intense scrutiny, Lavender sat up and reached for her cell. "You must be rich or somebody important. Last minute appointments aren't cheap, and by the way, just because you didn't participate doesn't mean a discount. It's still a K." She held out the transaction app for his biometric print.

Tall and thin, the Vulcan gentleman rose gracefully from the chair and reached into his robe pocket. Ten plastic credit tiles dropped on the bed at her feet – a quickly diminishing form of payment, yet still accepted. His voice spoke with authority. "You may leave now. Our business is concluded."

The licensed escort panned disinterest and collected her fee. With prostitution only recently legalized, a lot of clients tried to stay out of the system, as if that helped in an era of mass technology. Funny, she thought, Andorians weren't shy at all. Their sordid tastes made humans look puritanical. This was her first Vulcan and she knew he'd ordered other girls from different agencies. Word like that gets around the business. "Mind if I use the toilet?"

He gestured in the direction and turned away. Lavender shrugged purple glittered shoulders, gathered her clothes off the floor and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

The Vulcan aristocrat left the ornate hotel bedroom filled with Earth's richest precious woods and entered the equally lavish living area. Tables, couches, and settees of cloying assemblage; he longed for his home in the southern city of Ski'rang. A six room domicile of natural, logical simplicity on the shore of Ferrin Lake where his wife and family waited for him. Soon he hoped, removing a small, intricately detailed metal box from the inner pocket of his robe. After a close examination of the item, he touched a comm device in his pointed ear.

"Talik, my guest is leaving."

" _Yes, Sub-Ambassador_."

Radiant glow from the Bay area washed away all but the brightest stars and the vacancy was filled by the flashing lights of crowded air traffic lanes. Huge rooftop sat-dishes and humming HVAC machinery blocked Major Ti'Mira's view of the recently reopened Golden Gate Bridge. Bright new orange framework glittered off a dark Pacific ocean, the memory of last year forgotten when four high-yield particle bombs efficiently dropped the center span into the water, along with 89 people. Terrorism claimed by Terra Prime, the violent separatist organization resurging one year after the imprisoned death of their founder, John Frederick Paxton.

Humans aren't alone in protesting the United Federation of Planets. Both the Andorians and Tellarites spawned their own fanatic extremist groups working to undermine the Charter. The Romulans challenged the coalition three decades ago by waging a five-year war and were still actively sabotaging Federation interests. And the rising Klingon threat; a race that sees enemies everywhere has increased their military presence along the neutral zone borders.

Trouble threatens in two quadrants and the Office of Federation Security has her following the socially inappropriate actions of a Vulcan delegate on the Federation Council. Illogical to say the least. Ti'Mira dressed warmly in a tight thermal suit patterned in dark camouflage. It fit her body strikingly well. Taller than most Vulcan females, she embraced an exotic golden face of full lips, finely contoured nose, dark eyes and short, brown bangs falling in layers across her forehead. She achieved the rank of major after 16 years with V'Shar, and despite assurances of a temporary reassignment to this investigative farce, anticipated a long tour before returning to a more familiar environment.

Lowering the surveillance device, Ti'Mira caught the last few bytes of Sub-Ambassador Savian's conversation with his paid companion. Controlling her disappointment required an effort. A prominent Vulcan publically purchasing a human prostitute only aided the species segregation ideology. She willingly admitted a certain bias on the subject. Her cousin's foolish indiscretion almost 50 years ago cost her family dearly. Based on the sub-ambassador's behavior, Ti'Mira questioned the Vulcan Administration's continued policy of ignoring the problem. Perhaps this interspecies alliance is moving in the wrong direction too fast. Aberrant relations often cross interspecies boundaries through prolonged contact, even against certain biological imperatives. Vulcans generally find mating a tedious requirement of procreation, except during _pon farr_ when the blood boils.

Conversely, is it illogical behavior when a bond forms regardless of species? Her communicator identified an incoming transmission. "Go ahead."

"Looks like everything's wrapped up here, boss." Corrigan Stark stood on a ladder six doors from the Ambassador's hotel suite, his voice echoing in the HVAC conduit vent. "The heat distributor just passed through, no worse for wear. Maybe the envoy system just needed to clean out the old pipes."

"Thank you, special agent," Ti'Mira replied dryly at his crude code.

The raven-haired MACO officer smirked, occasionally tapping on a metal pipe to perpetuate his subtle disguise in case anyone else walks by his surveillance position. The Council ratified an experimental branch of Federation Security called 'Department 7' consisting of agents belonging to the four founding members and unaligned with any military forces. Team members suspended their military affiliations and were referred to as 'special agents.' Possibly because it signified a Federation alliance of equality, something that rarely happened in reality. Ti'Mira's diverse team generally used rank titles along established lines of authority and familiarity – unless she's irked. Strong and confident in blue hotel maintenance coveralls, Core suspected her eyes were closed in quick meditation during the momentary silence. Most Vulcans disdainfully ignore him.

As a Syrannite, Ti'Mira gained many insights from the Kir'Shara, the lost teachings of Surak discovered by Jonathan Archer in the Forge wastelands. The applied disciplines helped. Her transfer to the OFS and extended human proximity has proven more punishment than promotion, especially with this human. Stark will not disrupt her balance. This development concerning a Vulcan emissary to the Federation Council lends credence to Councilor Henry Archer's accusation of murder.

" _Orders_?" asked Stark over her comlink.

"Were you able to record the encounter from your position?"

"Sound only," he replied, disconnecting the security feed tap. "It's really not that bad."

Bad enough, thought Ti'Mira, ignoring his attempted encouragement. It was difficult to predict what behavior to expect from her second-in-command. "Have Lieutenant Vrill follow the young woman back to her agency. You and Baran stay with the ambassador and make sure he returns safely to the Vulcan embassy. I want everyone back to our command center when the targets are secured. I'll be there after meeting with Councilor Archer."

As it usually happens, the Federation placed a human buffer between three disagreeable species, but unlike everyone's childhood hero, Core had very little diplomatic skill and enjoyed provocation on any level. In fact, he was quite sure the admiral would have thrown him in the brig had he ever served aboard the NX-01 Enterprise. Lucky his Military Assault Command Operations, MACO commander on Earth had the same sense of playful sarcasm. Replacing the vent grill, Core left the borrowed ladder standing in the hall and walked to the elevator, speaking softly into his communicator. "I should be with you for backup, boss. I'm just across the street. Vrill can handle the man."

 _Boss_ , not a title she preferred, yet accurate enough to allow under the circumstances. Ti'Mira packed the electronic gear into a small case and walked across the rooftop to a sleek, tandem-rider aircraft parked near the south ledge of the building. "Just follow my instructions, Mister Stark."

Elevator music highlighted her expected rejection. "Understood, but the Orion Syndicate did try to kill you a back few lunar cycles."

"Yes, I remember." She had planned to pursuit the matter until this came along. Ti'Mira locked her equipment case in a molded storage compartment of the sky bike. "However, we are now on Earth and the risk is negligible."

"With all due respect, the Syndicate has the incentive and credit to hire an assassin anywhere in the two quadrants, especially right here at home."

"Your concern is noted," she replied. "Do as I order."

Unsurprised at limits of Vulcan stubbornness, he implemented his plan. The elevator door opened on a grand hotel lobby filled with holiday guests. Core avoided the crowds and strolled to a position near the rear security desk where private transporter pads serviced VIP clientele. According to previous surveillance, Savian was expected to depart from here. Several people including an elderly Andorian couple in long robes were just preparing to beam out. "Yes ma'am. Then with your permission, I'd like to send Vrill with Baran to watch the heater. It's broken down twice before, we should make sure it returns safely. I can watch the envoy myself. It has enough protection, especially with me there."

Ti'Mira donned a black tactical helmet, threw a leg over the saddle and engaged the energy safety harness. Straps of blue pastel light formed across her chest. Tapping panel contacts charged the power systems and the heat retainer. "Are you capable of following the sub-ambassador without compromising our mission?"

Question his competence; an insult to the male ego of every species, and purposely so. Stark's personality tended to push the boundaries of the most widely accepted social conduct, even for a human. The lax discipline puzzled her. Forced to approve a human as her first officer, she picked him based on an impressive record with MACO. From her knowledge, it was not an organization receptive to unorthodox behavior from an officer. Having little contact with aliens during her 61 years on Vulcan, his bold humor and brash dynamics baffled Ti'Mira more than any other species met so far. Her harsh treatment was meant to temper his conduct into something professional and more understandable. Instead, he deftly negated her effort. "Perfectly capable, boss. I'll even tuck him into bed if you like."

Perhaps it might be easier to simply replace him. She activated the helmet's graphic navigation display and confirmed the preflight checklist. "Do it your way, Mister Stark. Be aware that Sub-Ambassador Savian, second Vulcan delegate to the Federation Council, is now your responsibility alone."

Core grinned at how easily that worked. "Trust me."

"That is a challenging goal, Captain." Increasing power, the craft rose above the parapet and Ti'Mira engaged the thruster drive, smoothly blending into the brilliant lights streaking across San Francisco.

Three rooftops west, a figure stood in the shadows watching the sky-bike disappear into air traffic between the tall buildings. A Vulcan from all evidence, dark bangs and pointed ears, only his pale blue eyes hidden behind dark lenses marked any difference. The device in his hand analyzed her emissions signature and he studied a map display of the city. Predicting her destination after a few moments, he switched to the confirmed data records based on her captured image.

The Vulcan dashed lightly up a flight of stairs to a black, low-orbit vessel waiting on the landing pad. A hatch slid open on his approach and the small craft swallowed him. In moments, whining thrusters lifted the runabout off the platform. The ship melted into the sky lanes over San Francisco and disappeared off the tracking radar, unseen by two dead security guards lying beneath the landing platform.

Another busy Saturday night on Fremont Street a few blocks from Fisherman's Wharf and Federation citizens with a high credit reserve flew thruster vehicles that streaked along the boulevard thirty meters above the paved roadway. The average settled for electric ground cars to cruise the three block shopping district brilliantly lit by holiday neon lights and colorful animated holographs. Christmas-spirited groups strolled in the cold air, crowding the sidewalks, dance clubs and cafes in celebration of the approaching 23rd century.

One building along the seasoned street glaringly displayed computer graphics of happy smiling people in all sizes, shapes and species. One the many registered escort services recently legalized and controlled by the State of California in the Earth year 2199. The realistic characters danced across tall glass windows fronting the overstaffed agency. An easy source of employment for anyone willing to follow incredibly strict guidelines and constant monitoring – a sense of money over morality helps. Escort services were a true interspecies alliance without discrimination. Humanity developed eclectic tastes during this period of adjustment to normalized alien contact.

A black Electro rolled to a silent stop in front of the Talisman Model Agency and a large man in a dark suit exited the right rear door. He turned and assisted the young escort out onto the sidewalk, then climbed back inside. The vehicle pulled away, leaving the purple-wigged hooker checking her appointment log on the brightly lit street. Passing tourists stared and giggled behind gloved hands, some thinking her odd costume another part of the holiday festivities. Lavender, her professional name, liked the attention and ignored the underlying derision of those who knew her true career path.

"Excuse me." The voice of an angel washed over her in tones of love. A shadowy, hypnotic presence had stopped next to her and the young escort melted into instant adoration.

"I think I love you," Lavender whispered in awe.

"Press your finger here," the alien short ordered, covertly holding out a sensor pad. The girl complied breathlessly, heart pounding while her biometrics uploaded. "Alicia Leigh Hanson, nineteen years old and already a whore," the Mesmer read, almost purring. "I think I like this planet."

Alicia/Lavender swelled with passionate devotion. A hooded man standing in the nearby shadows cleared his throat to hurry things along. Mystifying and irresistible, the alien female moved closer and red eyes glowed from within her shaded hood. A hint of pale skin in the holiday lights and her breath caressed the young escort's face, enthralling her will. "Now Alicia, you will tell me everything about your last . . . purchased mating."

The painted prostitute gasped in excitement, desperate to break State confidentiality laws for the love of her life. "Yes, anything you want."

"I know," the siren smiled contentedly, that familiar sense of total control fulfilling an ancient genetic imperative. It made her hungry, but business first. "Start from when you were first contacted about the Vulcan."

Idling in geosynchronous orbit over San Francisco for the last three days put the entire crew in a lethargic mood. Maxwell Hardin listlessly read the ship's status reports from the center chair surrounded on all sides by control station consoles. 35 members aboard the USS Shenandoah and only he wore the gold shirt of Starfleet captain. The rest of the crew wore engineer red, with the exception of three bioscience officers in light blue uniforms. Virtually every aspect of a starship's operational management falls under the engineering division and each specialty is specified by the collar insignia. From warp propulsion to tactical systems, food replicators to waste recycling, if it controls some aspect of the ship, it's engineering.

Katrina Kolov worked at her tactical station, thinking along the same lines as their passenger, Maj. Ti'Mira. With increasing tensions between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, and Starfleet enforcing tighter navigational restrictions throughout Terran space, they place a powerful resource like the Shenandoah on taxi service. Fresh out of factory space dock, the nicknamed _Shannon_ marks her first assignment ushering Fed cops around for three weeks of complete tedium.

The lieutenant wore the latest Starfleet uniform for women, a short red dress accessorized with a wide black belt, boots and leggings – completely impractical in her opinion. Already an hour on-duty, the bored 33-year-old tactical officer assisted Starfleet Orbital Defense with monitoring for unauthorized traffic against the increased amount of commercial and private ships constantly traversing through Earth space. Any unassigned vessels were immediately stopped and boarded by patrol ships. So far, a runabout on an incorrect flight path and two unauthorized teens in daddy's low-orbit sedan have highlighted their three day tour of duty here.

So naturally a sudden alert from the console drew her hopeful excitement. Instead, Kolov swore softly and quickly ran slim fingers over the console pads attempting to identify and track an anomalous signal burst that lasted less than half a second. "Captain," she reported. "Sensors just detected a thruster signature fifteen hundred kilometers off the port bow at .43 duration. Sir, there is no spacecraft identified on that trajectory."

Hardin glanced up from the padd and his raised brows requested further clarification.

"I'll run diagnostics." Katrina bent over the monitors, chestnut brown ponytail falling over her shoulder.

The veteran captain rotated his chair toward the woman stationed on his right in a blue dress uniform. "Giana?"

Lt. Giana Castillo received her Starfleet commission by attaining advanced medical degrees in Xeno-biology, a highly coveted specialty these days. At 29, it made her the youngest of Shenandoah's three science officers and least experienced bridge officer which required a complete knowledge of all command operations. Giana currently studied tactical procedures under Katrina's instruction.

"Computer confirms an ion reading from the forward emissions sensor array," the ship's science officer replied working her board. "It matches drive signatures similar to Vulcan warp engines. Nothing detected on any other tracking sensors." She gazed up with hazel green eyes and short black hair. "No sign of any ship, sir."

"Captain," said Lt. Kolov. "The computer's now saying it was a sensor glitch."

Max Hardin tapped his armchair console for confirmation. A tall, rugged man of 51, he spent his life in Starfleet, from high school cadet to captain for the last 9 years. "Well, unless the Vulcans are using Suliban stealth technology, I'd have to agree with the computer. Who would have guessed? A brand new starship having technical bugs."

Lt. Derek Smith sitting at the forward station disliked his second posting aboard a Starfleet vessel. He spent three years aboard the Endeavor, one of the latest galaxy-class starships. The _Shannon_ is a nice ship, but it felt like a step down for an experienced helm and navigation officer. The 30-year-old New Yorker turned his head to speak. "Captain, a .43 second ion trace also corresponds to a Vulcan impulse burst just before engaging warp drive."

Hardin looked around at his 'first shift' bridge crew. "Katrina, are there any depleting outbound trails?"

"Negative. I've run every scanning parameter. According to the sensor logs, there was nothing out there."

"Giana, did SOD pick up the mysterious signature?"

"No, sir, but they were letting us cover this sector," Castillo replied.

Hardin pondered a moment. "I'm going with a sensor glitch. Send the log to Chief Verholtz, let him analyze it when he has a minute."

His tactical officer complied, transmitting the report next door to the Computer Command Center. "I think he has a little extra time, sir."

"Yes, Lieutenant," he side-glanced her. "I know chauffeuring Federation cops around the quadrant isn't fighting Klingons. You're free to request a transfer in three more weeks."

"No, sir, I love the Shannon. She is a beautiful vessel." Katrina's hasty defense produced a shade of Russian accent, something she swore to erase. Calming with a quick breath, she continued. "I just feel Starfleet is wasting a valuable resource."

"Chauffeuring Fed cops," he agreed. "You think I haven't mentioned it to the admiral?"

"If I may, sir," said Giana. "This is my first posting aboard any space vessel, much less a corvette warship. Personally, I'm glad I have a chance to learn the bridge systems before we head into combat situations."

"This is the first posting for a lot of our crew," the captain remarked.

"Twelve," Katrina stated dryly. "I take it back. I'm glad we're not in battle."

"It's an easy shakedown," said Hardin. "A chance to work out any problems."

Chief engineer Tyson Quinn entered through the bulkhead door directly aft of the command chair and plopped down at his station, tapping away at the console.

"Captain, we have a problem," he said without ceremony. His cropped black hair and rugged ebony face belonged on a veteran MACO, not a warp engine genius.

"See what I mean?" He swiveled his chair around. "What problem, Commander?"

"Pressure's building up in the anti-matter injectors," reported the huge man.

"What? Onscreen." Quinn put the engineering schematic on the main viewer. The complicated data readings emphasized an increasing redline indicator over the dilithium chamber diagram. "We've been sitting in geo-sync for the last three days and overloading the magnetic intermix containment field," said his chief engineer and executive officer. "This baby's a thoroughbred, not a cow, sir."

Hardin squinted at the odd farm analogy. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry, Captain," smiled the LCDR, fingers still working the touchpads. "This is the first Starfleet warp reactor based on shared Andorian technology and it's designed to provide a better power/ratio curve as we approach warp eight."

"This part I know, Ty."

After the Romulan War ended almost four decades ago, Starfleet began producing more combat-ready vessels as a precaution against the rising Klingon threat. Advanced AI automation allowed three crew shifts to operate and monitor the small Talon-class corvette on 24 hour basis. NCC-4010 sported the most advanced weaponry and heaviest defense shield generator available, topped by the first warp-8 hybrid engine, with Andorian help. Unlike the Vulcans, they were a race willing to share technology, and greater speed meant a greater advantage. The crew paid close attention to the chief engineer explain their new engine's design flaws.

"Apparently, some of the simulations were off by a few calculations," he finished. "I've got Ferris and Markham modifying the field integrity grids and anti-matter intakes, but we need to ventilate the injectors, and soon."

Hardin, a trained engineer, drew his own conclusion. "Which means either discharging anti-matter plasma into Earth's atmosphere or shutting down the warp reactor to prevent an overload. Two situations I'd like to avoid."

"We can dock with the orbital repair station, sir," Kolov suggested. "Let them cycle our anti-matter and clear the isolation system."

"Those guys will hold Shannon for a week," contributed Smith.

"I suggest we go to warp," said Quinn. "It'll release the intermix pressure and my guys can make the containment modifications on the fly. I've already consulted with Gant at Fleet Development and he's in agreement."

"I like it. Giana, contact Starfleet Command for permission to leave orbit."

"I recommend at least six hours at maximum warp," said Quinn. "This new engine needs to stretch or we're looking at serious damage."

"Sir," interrupted Lt. Castillo. "A message from Admiral Water's on your chair."

Hating coincidences, Max stared at the armrest monitor – hesitancy was an odd sensation for him. Cautious apprehension, even fear is normal for someone responsible for other lives. Did the 'incident' last year shake his confidence? Everything happened according to regs and Starfleet exonerated him, even assigned him a new command. So what was it? He transferred navigational data to Ens. Smith's console and shared the news.

"It looks like we might get some action after all. While we're out fixing a faulty warp engine, the admiral wants us to run a quick patrol along the Klingon Neutral Zone and check on reports of unidentified electronic signals picked up by long-range sensors. Giana, acknowledge Starfleet orders and notify Major Ti'Mira of our departure. She knows where to reach us if a problem arises. Derek, lay in those coordinates and break orbit, one-quarter thrusters. Katrina, please notify the crew to all stations and let's prep for warp."

The Shenandoah quickly slid away from the dazzling blue planet. Derek announced a 1000 kilometers distance and Hardin questioned his chief engineer on the ship's readiness.

"Let's start out at four and work our way up," Quinn suggested.

"You heard the man, Mister Smith, engage warp factor four."

The low-slung nacelles flashed bright blue. A rapid power surge created an invisible energy bubble around the starship and allowed instant acceleration through the light barrier. After a confirmed ETA and all systems running optimal, Hardin rose from the command chair. "XO, you have the con. I'll be in my ready room getting more details on our mission."

After acknowledging Lt. Castillo's message from the Shenandoah, Ti'Mira glanced around at the décor in Henry Archer's waiting room. He somehow managed to subtly mock Vulcan form in a failed melding of two alien cultures. Her second visit to his office and she still found it slightly offensive. Many of her associates speculated that the Federation Council Representative purposely intended this discomforting effect on all Vulcan visitors. Such as the soft black cushioned seats curling the sitter into an uncomfortable hunched position. Consequently, Ti'Mira sat on the edge, back straight and hands on her knees.

Three human data techs in busty green Starfleet blouses worked at console stations behind a white, curving acrylic desk. With cosmetic enhancements a button away, most humans with extra credit molded themselves into some fantasy of cultural perfection. It's her understanding they always have. Six information screens were inset on a Vulcan-inspired wall carving above them, further example of Archer's odd homage.

One of the perfected assistants informed Ti'Mira that the councilor was ready to see her now. She acknowledged, rising from the chair and subconsciously tugging her khaki V'Shar jacket tighter across her own chest. The office door slid open and Henry Archer bid her to a burgundy wingback chair set before his faux-wood desk. Pale and scholarly at 31, he looked nothing like his famous father, retired Admiral Jonathan Archer. How can any son measure up to the man who not only saved Earth, but the entire quadrant from an interdimensional threat? Ti'Mira understood the complication of family genetics, being connected to this man by a thin, yet disagreeable relationship.

"I read your recommendation to the council, Special Agent." Archer said critically. "You've had three days and this killer is still loose in the city. This is a very delicate political situation and I expected more from Federation Security."

Ti'Mira patiently restated the facts in that same document. "Councilor, the Starfleet Intelligence reports are incomplete and quite possibly inaccurate. According to the evidence, both females were murdered before visiting the Royal Bay, facts supported by hotel surveillance which my team recovered on our first day. Your forensic technicians found no evidence from the sub-ambassador's suite, nor from any from the bodies. No biological traces, prints, or fibers; the only connection is that the victims were scheduled to meet with him _prior_ to their deaths."

"Not just two escorts," he almost sneered.

"Yes, Councilor," she continued unaffected. "We confirmed the SI reports that his aide, Talik, scheduled five appointments over the last two weeks. None of which were from the same agencies. The first victim worked at the Red Zone here in San Francisco, the other victim worked out of the People's Choice agency in Oakland. Tonight's appointment returned safely back to the Talisman agency. Other than profession, there is no direct correlation between the escorts, their agencies or the sub-ambassador."

Archer leaned back in his desk chair, displeased. "I know you find this assignment distasteful. Murder on your planet is rare and the thought of any Vulcan involved in such a heinous crime must be disturbing. Still, you're now a member of the Federation and your job is to protect the alliance charter. At the very least Savian's sexual practices deserve closer inspection."

Ti'Mira replied impassively. "The sub-ambassador's preferences are not strictly illegal by current Vulcan law and certainly not by yours, Councilor. Any further investigation risks violating the alliance charter concerning diplomatic immunity. If you wish to solve these murders, I suggest the San Francisco Police Department start looking for another perpetrator, possibly a criminal who resents legalized prostitution. You have my report and recommendation. Unless these local crimes have terrorist ties, they are simply not Department Seven jurisdiction."

Archer spent enough time around Vulcans to recognize their subtle facial expressions. They do excel at suppressing emotions, making them difficult to read, but not impossible. He devoted time in understanding his alien colleagues, and his enemies. Interspecies mating nearly ruined her family, too.

"You know this is a special favor for my father," he said.

"I am aware of that," she replied. "It is the only reason I agreed to investigate the allegations. Admiral Archer is a great man."

"Intrepid explorer," Henry recited. "Champion of the Xindi Threat, former Ambassador to Andoria and ex-President of the Federation Council who I believe is currently vacationing on some undisclosed planet with his ever-present companion, your cousin T'Pol. It's important to him that the Vulcan High Council remain stable, especially during your planet's recent troubles. First Minister T'Pau appointed Savian to the Federation Council, and now his unorthodox behavior could greatly impact her already tenuous position."

The Kir'Shara seriously affected the Vulcan political climate. The militaristic remnants of the old High Command were swept out of authority under First Minister T'Pau's new leadership. A great pioneer of gender equality, her policies eventually aided Ti'Mira in her quick rise within the Security Directorate.

Recently, a member of the Vulcan High Council named Kilor has gained a reputation with his extreme isolationist principles. Much of it referenced unorthodox Vulcan/human relationships and verged on a Terra Prime level of rhetoric. It catered to a large percentage of the population who considered the old ways in the best interests of traditional Vulcan culture, before the Federation increased interaction between the two species. Even Ti'Mira pondered the advantages of limited contact based on her own discomfort with close human association.

She blandly ignored his remark concerning her cousin who notoriously broke more than just interspecies barriers. A child at the time, Ti'Mira knew the story quite well since their fathers were brothers. First, Sub-commander T'Pol requested a permanent posting aboard the human starship Enterprise and helped destroy the sacred P'Jem monastery. Then, she resigned her commission with the High Command and entered the Delphic Expanse against their wishes. When offered a chance to return, she instead joined Starfleet and ultimately, divorced her husband Koss to mate with human Charles Tucker. That inconceivable misstep resulted in a hybrid offspring used by Paxton in Terra Prime's first attack over forty years ago. Ti'Mira's infamous cousin crossed far too many Vulcan lines.

After Tucker allegedly died in 2161, T'Pol became a Starfleet captain and fared well during the Romulan War. She eventually became chief advisor and closest confidant to Jonathan Archer throughout his political career, and even during his short marriage. Rumors say Henry still blames her for his mother's death, a contention dividing father and son long ago.

Ti'Mira offered a tilted head and challenging dark eyes. "Perhaps I should report my findings directly to the Admiral."

"Follow D7 protocol, Major," sneered Councilor Archer. "You will continue this investigation until the council makes a decision on your recommendation. I don't care how you do it, just clear up this up."

Sixteen levels beneath the councilor's office, a basement tactical room under the United Federation of Planets - North American Headquarters consisted of a windowless box with six clear acrylic desks each with an elaborate computer station. In matters of Federation concern, Dept. 7 was an interspecies terrorist enforcement branch that superseded local authority on all four founding planets. Other members such as Denobula and Rigel came with a butt-full of restrictions, but in Stark's experience it was still one of the few things on which the Council ever agreed. Four OFS agents sat filing reports and researching new lines of inquiry while waiting for Ti'Mira. Even Ragner, his image on a floating holo-monitor, was busy at his console aboard the Shenandoah. With the escort safely returned, and in light of what they learned, the case had reached a decision point.

Corrigan Stark relaxed on a brown fabric sofa, legs stretched and crossed, hands behind his head exhibiting muscled arms. Changed out of hotel coveralls, he wore a tight black tee shirt that defined his broad chest and dark denim jeans over black boots. A black shadow of late night bristle on his square jaw portrayed a caricature of noir suave. "Ragner," he yelled at the hovering vid. "Anything on the box? Ragner!"

Onscreen, the short Tellarite looked up and sneered. "Oh, sorry, sir, I thought you were asleep. No sir, I have nothing since receiving the information exactly two minutes ago. You do realize, sir, we are currently heading for the Klingon Neutral Zone . . . sir."

Each repeated title implied deep disrespect and a touch of loathing. Typical Tellarite and Core loved it. "Are you bragging, Lieutenant? Cuz' I hate braggarts."

Ragner squinted in exasperation. "I will comm when I actually have something, _sir_."

The screen vanished and Stark chuckled. "That boy's coming along fine."

"Your prodding always helps," said Sahron'Vrill Rashon from his desk, twitching both his antennae in Stark's direction, a sign of annoyance. The Andorian Imperial Guard assigned to the new OFS team dressed in Earth style of dark blue hoodie jacket, buttoned gray shirt and black shiny pants. It went well with his light blue skin, short muscular frame and white hair neatly combed back atop a broad, stern face and piercing pale-blue eyes. Young for an OFS agent, his presence on the team created friction with Ti'Mira, two enemies of centuries-old conflict. Perhaps the Vulcan beauty doesn't realize how much of that grudge Core deflects on himself with his "inappropriate humor."

Stark remained undisturbed; commanding, confident and patient. "Since when did you become a fan of Tellarites, Vrill? Insult is part of their culture and he loves me. Besides, two minutes is more than enough time to find information in the Federation database, and the fact that there's nothing means something."

"I'm not questioning the validity of the intel _we_ gathered, Captain," the Andorian replied arrogantly, rejecting Stark's constant confusion. "Just your method of authority."

"My method?" Core sat up and sharpened his tone.

"Vrill," Baran's synthesized voice circumvented another confrontation. " I'm curious. Are officers of the Imperial Guard allowed to question their superior officers?"

With her hood down, the fourth member of their team revealed the strange pale humanoid features of her species. She was completely devoid of hair, not even lashes marred the porcelain smooth, ashen skin around her bright red eyes. A Hollywood nightmare with a fatal attraction.

Early Vulcan explorers discovered the planet Udora circling a star on the other side of the Andromeda galaxy several decades ago. The inhabitants were sentient, industrialized and aggressive, not unlike humans along the same era. After intensive orbital study, they discovered that roughly one-in-ten thousand Udorans possessed a natural ability to mesmerize and control prey by the vibration patterns produced in their throats. Evolution had wisely decided not to effect other Udorans, or else the _Khal_ race would likely have been hunted and exterminated.

It wasn't until the Vulcans came along and discovered their ability of persuasion affected other sentient species in the galaxy. So potent it nearly forced the captain to kill the 'specimen' they had gathered or risk losing control of his ship. The influence ceased once he was isolated, preventing that incident. Years later, their scientists finally developed a counteragent against the diabolically-designed vocal chords. Now, the _Khal_ were a highly valued secret, even from the Udora government.

Unable to implant a Universal Translator without risking her unique gift, Baran spoke thru the stylish collar device in a delayed vocal simulation and received an Udoran translation through a comm in her webbed ear. Synthesizing the speech actually supported the chemical counteragent in preventing her from controlling everyone in the room. Of course, she was restricted from ever using her ability without authorization, a condition of being here. Stark found the overlapping vocal delay irritatingly tedious.

"Of course not," Vrill replied, antennae drooping slightly. "But he is not a Guardsman."

Core smoothly gained his feet. "Stand down, Lieutenant. In this unit, I am your superior officer and my _method of authority_ is not yours to question. That privilege belongs to Major Ti'Mira," he said, noticeably easing his tone while pouring coffee from the dispenser.

The Udoran presented him with a smile of brilliantly white, very sharp pointed teeth behind blood red lips. A terrorizing expression often the subject of his jokes, and another of the Andorian's peeves. "Vrill," she said. "I enjoy Core's sense of humor. Have you not heard me call him 'snack'?"

"I like 'meat' better," said Stark, nodding at his steaming mug. "It sounds dirtier."

"I like meat, too," she implied, the synthetic voice attempting sexy.

"Is there something going on here?" demanded Vrill.

Stark groaned and rubbed his late night whiskers, returning to the sofa. "Vrill, when are you going to catch on, mate? It's her game. Maybe you need another booster shot."

The Andorian bristled at the implication, stretching his antennae and puffing his chest for a response.

"Captain Stark's right." They all turned in surprise. Desta Arnsdotir, the diminutive Federation computer tech, usually kept out of their conversations. She considered her talents more attuned with Ragner, establishing data and communication links on whatever planet the D7 team might operate in the future. Other than a two-week training indoctrination on Vulcan in which they all participated, this was their first assignment. "About the game, I mean," she continued, brushing mousy Icelandic hair out of her brown eyes. "Udoran females enjoy males fighting over them, it's a part of their cultural evolution. I find it entertaining."

"Thank you," Core and Baran chimed for different reasons.

"Have fun, Vrill," said the Mesmer.

"Ignore her," advised Stark. "She'll get tired of playing."

"Oh, you play just fine." Baran stretched sensually. "And it makes me very tired."

"See?" He waved his free palm at the brooding Andorian, secretly glad of his own immunization shot.

The bunker door slid open and Ti'Mira entered. Vrill's antennae sagged, animosity trumping arousal. She directed Desta to lock down the bunker and ordered a report. Core initiated a holo-screen containing four separate video angles.

"All participants are back to their respective locations safe and sound, no incidents, nor suspicion of further incidents. Major, we've been here three days and the police reports are obviously rot. Neither girl showed for their appointment nor did Savian or Talik leave the suite at any time while the murders took place. The sub-ambassador had nothing to do with the murders, at least not directly. Though, it's possible they happened _because_ of his . . . proclivities."

Her same thoughts poorly presented. Ti'Mira deadpanned impatience, or did she just imagine his smirk? "You believe someone is attempting to discredit the sub-ambassador."

He shrugged. "Vulcan law says he's not breaking anything more than an unspoken taboo, so his personal actions are hardly newsworthy unless there's two murders connected."

"Interesting hypothesis," said Vrill, enjoying this assignment from the start. Embarrassing a Vulcan diplomat would score highly with the Andorian Guard.

"The question is," Stark went on. "Does it involve us? I recommend we let local law enforcement handle their own garbage. Our mission statement says seek and destroy terrorist organizations throughout the five sectors, not solve hooker murders for politicians."

Ti'Mira's dark eyes roamed over her team and returned to Stark. "That was my recommendation to the Federation Council as well," she said. "Not verbatim of course."

"Great," he replied, clapping and happily washing his hands. Core replaced the screen with personal and criminal records of his subject. "I have a very promising lead on Braxus Prime that actually deals with D7 issues."

"Braxus Prime?" questioned Vrill. "The back-planet smuggler?"

"Talo Kinloc, an Orion smuggler with ties to Klingon raiders operating just outside Federation space. I think he has info on Ti'Mira's . . . the major's assassination attempt. "

"I looked at your intel," said the Andorian. "There's a Klingon death warrant on him."

"I know, it's a perfect cover."

"I agree," Ti'Mira said.

"You do?" Stark asked, continuously surprised by her.

"Yes, I also read the report and it's worth further investigation. However, until the council makes a decision on my recommendation, we continue to focus on our current mission."

She tapped a set of pads on her desk and Ragner's face replaced the smuggler files on the floating photon particle screen.

"Major," the furry Tellarite grunt/greeted.

"Lieutenant, let's go over the update I received on the way here. I thought SI records stated the sub-ambassador began his appointments two weeks ago?"

"Yes, according to the reports we received from the initial investigators. Desta recovered a deleted file in the SFPD database. A police officer's surveillance records relating to the sub-ambassador's activities a week prior to the official record."

Ti'Mira turned to Desta. "Any report of escort visitations during that lost week, dead or alive?"

"The data tracks are too dispersed for recovery," she replied. "However, there are no reports of dead or missing escorts during the unaccounted week, nor any independent sex workers I can find. I'm still searching."

"Deliberately or accidentally deleted, it still doesn't implicate Savian," Core pointed out.

"Thank you, Desta." Ti'Mira turned on the Udoran female. "Now, tell me about this box and how you obtained the information from an Earth citizen without an authorization warrant."

Baran shrank under her hard gaze. Unlike the several other planets under membership consideration, Udora barely met the Federation's minimum standards of industrialized classification. They were far from achieving space flight as a developing civilization, yet their two moons contained vast deposits of dilithium ore. In light of the growing Klingon threat and a desperate need for anti-matter, the Council made an exception to the newly ratified Prime Directive of non-interference. Udora quickly grew into a booming society with the influx of modern technology. Since the Federation Council recently established an interspecies investigative agency, they allowed Baran and her unique ability to participate in their grand experiment pending a decision. The Udoran leadership watched her performance carefully.

"Is that the reason why you wanted Baran with Vrill'L tonight?" she accused Stark. "So you could risk damaging our investigation."

He knew the consequences. "Major, the Council allowed her to be a part of this team for a reason. Your own First Minister supported the decision, and I saw an opportunity. If I'd asked your permission on the spot, you would have denied it based more on the ramifications than the results. This was our best chance of attaining information without government lawyers coming out our asses. People can't lie to her, and the fact is, boss, she uncovered new intel. Without eating the informant I might add."

Ti'Mira glared at him and Stark tried for contrite. "I apologize, Major. The decision wasn't mine to make. Regardless of the immediacy, in the future I will clear my actions through the proper chain of command."

That sounded extremely prepared. Still, the results are what count. "You are my First Officer and I expect you to make wise field decisions as the situation requires. My annoyance, as always, is from your attempted humor, and yes, the possible ramifications that might yet still occur." Ti'Mira released a breath thru her nose. "Play the recording."

Baran tapped her console and holo-vid displayed an angle from Vrill's position several meters away. Even though they were roughly the same height, the Udoran dominated the escort into a quivering fawn – predator and prey, and disturbing to watch. The slightly shrill voice of Alicia Hanson passionately described the evening, directed by Baran's incredibly magnetic, unfiltered voice. She had obviously removed the collar device and even a recording stirred Core's libido in spite of inoculations. He surreptitiously watched Ti'Mira for any signs of life.

Alicia explained how she had no idea her client was a Vulcan until arriving at the hotel. He only watched, as lots of clients do, and paid full price in credit chips before she left. Baran suspected the girl had more information and prodded harder, accusing her of holding back. After pitiful pleas of denial and devotion, a terrible groan erupted from the girl. Ti'Mira glared and the Udoran paused the replay. "That was not me, Major. Listen to the rest."

The prostitute released a shaky breath on the recording and struggled to remember dressing for her appointment when she found a small box in her locker at the agency. Her words shook with pain, torturously describing it as ring-sized and intricately etched in silver. It belonged to the Vulcan and she gave it to him the right after she arrived. Baran asked how she knew the box belonged to the client. Alicia, almost sobbing by now, replied she just did.

"I stopped there," said Baran. "It was getting dangerous. I had to dig pretty deep for that. Major, someone implanted an imperative action that unconsciously commanded her to give the box specifically to Savian, and then buried the memory."

"That's hell of an ability," Core scowled. "Who can do that?"

"One of your people, perhaps?" Vrill asked Baran. "The Aenar on my planet eventually became telepathic."

"I have never met another _Khal_ ," she replied. "It is forbidden on my planet, but anything is possible. I myself must maintain a proximity contact at all times, and I cannot manipulate memory."

"Maybe it's a Vulcan," suggested Stark glibly. "You guys have telepathic traits."

Her expression had other suggestions . "Stop speculating and focus on the box. It may provide the answers we seek."

Ragner complied. "I ran a secured search on the astral-net and picked up some chatter about the Satisma cartel using similar boxes."

She released her patented blank stare on him. "Do you suspect Sub-Ambassador Savian of narcotic smuggling as well?"

"I didn't say that, Major," the Tellarite said defensively. "I'm just reporting information. There isn't a lot of reference to suspicious metal ring boxes."

"You know," intervened Stark. "The timing was bothering me, but now I think I have it; seven hookers - seven boxes. Assuming the sub-ambassador received escorts during the missing week, it calculates into a girl every three days over a period of twenty-one days starting on December First."

"Obsessively precise in all things," Vrill sneered. "Just like a Vulcan."

Stark glared. Ti'Mira signaled him to ignore it.

"At this point," she observed. "We have no confirmation of any other appointments during the missing week, only a deleted surveillance report. Further, we have no reason to suspect the box is connected to the murders, or even if more than one exists. According to SI reports, no boxes were recovered from the two victims."

"Like I trust Starfleet Intelligence now," said Stark. "Although, I am intrigued by these new developments."

Ti'Mira nodded agreement. "Councilor Archer will likely delay the council's decision on my recommendation. Tomorrow I will clear warrants to re-interview every witness on the record, visit the crime scenes and talk to all investigators involved if necessary. Vrill, contact the agencies of the three surviving escorts that completed their appointments. Use the warrant and bring them in for questioning."

"Should be easy enough," the Andorian answered, speaking with the power of their new office. "They either cooperate or lose their license. The liberal State of California has no choice."

"Simply find out if any of them delivered a box." She paused and directed her words at the Udoran. "They will likely bring a legal representative. If they have the same buried memories, I suggest you retrieve them as gently as possible and within strict Department Seven protocols. An interview warrant will not save you from prosecution for violating the mental stability of a Federation citizen beyond the scope of our investigation."

"Fear not, Major," she purred. "They will love me for it."

Ti'Mira gazed stonily at the hairless beauty and flicked her annoyance at Stark. "Why am I suddenly regretting your idea to include her on this team?"

A wry smile crossed Corrigan Stark's face. As the leader of this merry band, the final decision was actually hers. "She'll be fine, boss. Baran's very clever."

The famous Vulcan brow lingered. "Yes, I've read the report of your association together. Let's hope it's less destructive this time. Ragner and Allen, contact every Bay Area escort agency, even those already listed in the report. We need confirmation on any of their workers providing service to the sub-ambassador during the missing week, likely scheduled through his aide. I also want deep background data on everyone involved; civilians, law enforcement and even councilmembers and their staff. Look for any possible political motives to vilify a member of the Federation Council, particularly in this manner."

"Is that all, Major?" the Tellarite grunted on the hovering screen.

"That's a lot of people, ma'am," agreed Desta. "It could take a while."

She continued unsympathetic. "You both will also need to keep searching the SI/NYPD databases for any files connected to the ambassador; deleted, encrypted or hidden, and you will be careful researching the box over social information grids. The murderer is currently unaware of our knowledge. It's an advantage I would like to keep."

Stark introduced another possibility. "My sources are checking into any recent Terra Prime activity. Killing prostitutes that service Vulcans sounds exactly like something they'd do. Nothing so far, but it might need a personal touch. You want me to contact her?"

"Of course, Mister Stark," Ti'Mira replied smoothly. "However, I will require you coherent at zero-eight hundred tomorrow morning."

He actually planned on sleeping the few remaining hours. "I'll take a vitamin. May I ask what I'll be doing?"

"Questioning Sub-Ambassador Savian about his involvement."

That threw Core off-balance. "All due respect, he's just going to hide behind diplomatic immunity, especially with an emotional subspecies like me."

"I have my reasons," she replied, ignoring his passive aggression. "Everyone get some rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow. Keep the OFS database updated on your progress. Dismissed."

After two hours, the USS Shenandoah cruised toward the Federation/Klingon border at a spectacular warp 7.5. A slight departure from standard Starfleet designs mounted her smaller disk section atop a reconfigured conical fuselage superstructure, allowing space for the new prototype engine and heavier tactical systems. New ovoid warp nacelles trimmed in Starfleet blue and yellow slanted downward on short angled pylons.

LCDR Tyson Quinn oversaw the bridge from his engineering station, foregoing the captain's chair for better observation of the warp field output. A shift of ten specialists monitored and controlled the Shenandoah's complex quantum electronics integration during high-warp operations. Three in the Computer Command Center directly behind the bridge and eight in the engine room two decks below, all of them carefully supervised by Chief Operations Technician Gunnar Verholtz, computer genius – his own title. A Tellarite tech sitting in the ops section has disagreed with that claim many times.

"Time to waypoint?" Quinn asked loudly across the bridge.

"Eighteen minutes," replied Ens. Smith, raising his face from the helm.

"Commander," reported Kolov. "Long range sensors detect the electronic anomaly ahead – ETA five minutes."

"Can you identify the source?"

"It's a vessel. I'm scanning the database for a match . . . negative, sir, nothing corresponds with that configuration."

"Really," said Quinn, puzzled. "Castillo, can you get bio readings from here?"

"Working, sir, it's heavily shielded. I'm modulating harmonics . . . got it." The young medical doctor looked up from her console. "Confirmed human."

"They've detected us," said Kolov. "They're running, sir

"All stations tactical alert," ordered LCDR Quinn, jumping up and hovering over the helmsman. "Stay with them, Smith, they're in restricted space. Castillo, brief the captain on his way to the bridge, then get Starfleet Command."

End Chapter One -


	2. Chapter 2

Star Trek: Enemy Reborn – Chapter Two

Ti'Mira lay awake at four in the morning and argued the logic of being watched. Her quarters are deep inside one of the most secure buildings in North America and impenetrable to scanners. Yet, the sensation existed. Let them look, she mentally shrugged, there is nothing going on under her blanket.

Perfectly aware of the metaphor, she organized the morning schedule of interviews while watching shadows from two scented candles dance on the ceiling. Having no doubt the sub-ambassador innocent of murder, she focused on the mysterious box and speculated on possible trails to investigate, anything that connects. Drugs were not beyond question, even Vulcans become addicted. Many secretly relied upon chemical compounds to aid their emotional suppression. A derivative of the same neuro-suppressor used on humans produces euphoric and dangerous side effects. Naturally, it became popular with human culture.

A Vulcan member of the Federation Council involved with that trade definitely falls into her jurisdiction – protecting the Charter. This type of scandal could topple an alliance that already threatens to destroy itself from within. Forty years after its founding, the United Federation of Planets still struggles to remain intact. Bickering distrust over trade agreements, border disputes and long-held grudges between the 19 member races continues to plague the tenuous coalition. It forces the human delegation to constantly act as intermediaries when threats of withdrawal occur on a weekly basis.

In the years following the Romulan War, many planets wanted to join the new partnership as a protection resource. Recently, very few have applied for membership. Most of the potential prospects were waiting to see if the Federation can stalemate the Klingons the same way Starfleet did the Romulans. One of her people dealing drugs only gave the separationist groups like Terra Prime more power in destroying the alliance. It would also give Sub-Minister Kilor the leverage he required to force T'Pau from office.

Something bothered her. Savian, a man of high intelligence, has barely covered his unorthodox activities and logic implies an expectation of eventual discovery. However, that theory conflicts with someone altering the escort's memory and concealing knowledge of the alleged box. Were the prostitutes simply transfer mechanisms to fool the V'Shar, who ignored a minor embarrassment while missing a larger one?

The V'Shar has likely known about Savian since the beginning. After T'Pol was instrumental in helping Jonathan Archer recover the Kir'Shara and facilitate the leadership change, T'Pau relaxed certain restrictions on interspecies association. When Terra Prime combined human/Vulcan genomes and produced a hybrid child, the elder council members pressured the First Minister to reverse that policy.

The Security Directorate has recently discovered a number of prominent Vulcans covertly involved with humans – mated relationships of true fondness from all reports. As a security officer, Ti'Mira knew the offenders have never faced prosecution, only warned and censured, or reallocated to less public positions. The High Council prefers the unpleasantness just go away without notice.

Unfortunately, the killings alerted Earth authorities to the sub-ambassador's prurient activities and the Federation Council assigned her team. Ti'Mira suspected Starfleet Intelligence of withholding information, something she uncomfortably relied on her human colleagues to uncover. The Charter amendment creating Department 7 prevents her from directly contacting her former superiors in the V'Shar. All communications must go through a centralized chain of command trusted by both the Andorians and Tellarites. The son of Jonathan Archer.

Lying sleepless, Ti'Mira pondered her planet's interest in guiding humanity. They were a hostile race controlled by emotions. Civilized apes wearing hats and drinking tea while nuclear bombs fells in what their history calls World War III. She admitted having respect for the survivors that united in recovery. Over the next century, they completely abolished war, hunger and disease. Then Cochrane broke the light barrier a 142 years ago and somehow humans became wards of Vulcan.

As a child in school she remembered her favorite instructor clarifying the true logic behind their association with Earth. Professor Vilak compared it to training a vicious sehlat as an ally against the even more hostile empires in the sector. Ti'Mira's family owned a pet sehlat for many years; very loyal when treated properly and fed on time.

She sat up and tapped her buzzing earpiece. "Ti'Mira."

"I'm sorry to wake you, Major."

"I was awake, Ms. Allen. Go ahead."

"I have a message from Ragner sent through secured channels." She replayed the decoded transmission of _Shenandoah_ 's delayed return and unpredictable time frame.

"Thank you, Desta," she said. "Please put through any more contacts immediately."

She closed the link and flipped the blanket away, putting her bare feet on the carpeted floor. Straightening her black silk pajama top, she asked for a time check and sipped water from a flask. Her conflicted mind already regretting the early morning decision, Ti'Mira opened another channel.

Corrigan Stark dodged a flurry of quick left jabs and turned a shoulder into a piston kick that knocked him back a meter. "You know," he danced, bringing his gloves up and moving in on her. "I like to work out when there's something on my mind, too."

Another blur of arms and legs ended with him tossed onto the mat. Ti'Mira backpedaled away, barefoot in black tights and red athletic tank top, flicking dark brown bangs from her moist forehead. Rolling to his feet, Core smiled and shook his head. He wore a tight black MACO shirt over his broad muscled chest, yellow-trimmed black shorts and lightweight sparring boots. Slowly reengaging, he swiftly snapped a fast combination of kicks and punches, appreciating her fighting skills and acutely aware of their touching bodies. Vulcans might have a greater natural strength, but unarmed combat requires more than raw muscle. Locking her arm in a block, he threw her over his hip and backed quickly out of reach. "So," he smiled engagingly. "What's on your mind, Major?"

She rolled to her feet in a controlled smolder, dark eyes glaring over the black gloves. Closing fast and hard, Ti'Mira grunted her question between strikes. "Did I . . ." two left jabs. "Take you away . . ." left-right combo followed by a lightning-fast round kick to his head. "From something important?"

Core blocked and countered with his own flurry of strikes that she successfully checked before he disengaged. "Just sleep, but who needs that?"

"What about your Terra Prime contact?" she asked, circling around for an opening. "Have you arranged a meeting with her?"

Something in her tone sparked his imagination. Jealousy? He warily watched her reaction. "We have plans to hookup tonight."

"Good," she replied, feigning a left to his jaw followed by a fake right that raised his both gloves over his face for protection. Ti'Mira stepped inside, pounded his exposed torso with her elbow and took him down with a hip throw. Core wrapped an arm around her neck and twisted as he fell, landing on the pads with her beneath his hard body. His victorious smile faltered when her leg came up and looped a calf around his neck. She bucked hard and he suddenly found himself on the bottom, positions reversed and getting choked by her thigh. Core tapped her leg and conceded the match, not really minding so much.

Ti'Mira rolled off and sat on the mat, arms on her knees, watching him.

Why did she call Stark, other than to beat him up a little? During their first week of training as a team, he subtly revealed his sexual desire by asking her to have dinner with him. Apparently, humans now consider Vulcans fair game. She warned him off, and so far he's honored her wishes by ending all the flirtations, even when they were alone together. Like now he has yet to make any innuendos, not that she would tolerate that behavior.

So, why call him? Her dark eyes unintentionally studied his muscled bicep. "Can I trust you, Stark?"

On his back in a drifting doze, he tossed out a lazy "sure," and immediately recognized the subtle difference in her always serious tone, raising his head too late.

"Never mind," she said, pushing off the floor.

Core came up fast and reached for her wrist. "Wait, you caught me off guard."

Ti'Mira instinctively pulled away from his contact and eyed him.

"Yes, Major," he said earnestly, allowing her boundaries. "You can trust me."

Questioning her sanity, she sat back down and crossed her legs. A long stare convinced her of his word, though she believed it a waste of time and the idea best abandoned. How can he possibly understand her conflict, the difficulty adjusting to the customs of so many alien species? After a lifetime of near isolation, her superiors drop her into a pit filled with them. It forced her to interact on a personal, almost intimate level without even another Vulcan on the team to ease the sensory pressure, and meditation only helps so much. Though never admitting it, she missed her posting at Vulcana Regar, the friends and colleagues with whom she conversed in comfortable expectation of a logical response.

Vulcans do not get lonely or homesick, she chided herself, nor do they fear losing control.

"What is it, Ti'Mira?"

The rare use of her name sparked a disturbing reaction and brought up another question. Did all Vulcans have this emotion lying dormant? Until now, no males of any race have ever affected her at all, not even her oldest friends, and Stark's obvious concern settled her uncertainty regarding this very foolish idea. Rising effortlessly from the mat, she walked across the exercise room to the equipment rack and began removing her gloves. "You will question the sub-ambassador." She looked over her shoulder. "Alone."

Core leaned back on the padding, expertly detecting a changed subject. "Okay, good plan," he lied. "You think I can get him to talk?"

She patted a towel over her glistening neck and perfectly defined arms in a tight tank-top, challenging him to keep his eyes away. Since Vulcan males never actively pursuit females until _pon farr_ , Ti'Mira appeared completely ignorant of her effect on a perpetually horny species. Did she actually expect him to ignore it?

"He will not see you as a threat," she replied, holding the towel around her neck. "Under current Federation statutes, he has diplomatic immunity unless he confesses the crime to another Vulcan. As a human, he can tell you every detail and you are restricted from divulging any of that information in court. Since we both agree he has no connection to the murders, I believe he might speak more candidly with you."

"I like it," said Core, sitting up and crossing his legs. "However, manipulating the mind of an Earth citizen is a very serious crime. Savian might not have direct knowledge of it, but his reception of the box definitely connects him to someone cooking the escort's brain. That might be something I can use."

"Even if he admits having done it personally, he still has diplomatic immunity. Threats will not coerce him."

"Major, you know I have experience interviewing Vulcans."

His charming grin reaped a slow, feline blink of patience. "We need further information," she said patiently. "If the mysterious box has a simple explanation, he will divulge it. If he refuses, then find out as much about it as possible. Anything he says could assist with the case."

"What if he lies?"

"Vulcans do not lie," she replied, tossing the towel into the recycler.

Stark nearly choked, remembering a history of deceptive omission since Zefram Cochrane popped the light-speed cherry. The noise drew his favorite look, the slightly tilted head of annoyance. He cleared his throat and got up from the mat, walking over next to her for a towel. "So, what will you be doing while I'm with Savian?"

"I will be speaking with his assistant," she replied, crossing her arms. "Talik does not share the same immunity status. It makes him a weak link, as you say."

Sensing her discomfort at his proximity, he subtly turned away and toweled off. "Do you trust me to handle the interview within strict Vulcan propriety?"

"I trust you to be exactly who you are, Mister Stark," she said, expressionless.

"What does that mean?"

She swallowed a sip of rehydrating fluid. "It means your talent for insulting Vulcans will work better than threats. I anticipate the sub-ambassador will become defensive and reveal more than he should."

"Talent is hardly fair," he replied mock-wounded, walking over to a weight machine. "It's really more of an instinct. Besides, I don't insult you."

"No, of course not. That would be illogical since you have a sexual interest in me. Your derisive humor is usually directed Vulcans in general."

"Okay, first of all . . ." Core paused his bicep curls, tongue in cheek. "Okay, second of all, I'm not the only one casting insults. After a 150 years of mutual cooperation, you Vulcans still act as if we barely rate as an intelligent species."

"Well, humans and apes do have a 98.7 percent biological similarity," she said logically, strolling closer.

Perhaps that was unintentional – he'll give her the benefit of doubt, but the callous statement still pissed him off. Core let the weights drop with a loud clang and faced her with the same logical reasoning. "Yes, Ti'Mira, but we can't make babies with apes, now can we?"

She maintained eye contact, though his wounded insinuation shook her unexpectedly.

Refusing any guilt, he returned to his arm curls without further comment.

"I apologize for comparing you to an animal." Ti'Mira said, having crossed the line first.

A forgiving side-glance and he continued pumping. "Well, you're not wrong."

"Neither are you. You obviously know about my cousin's decision to mate with a human. Since then, no Vulcan holds a human posting longer than one year, even though T'Pau and the Vulcan High Council relaxed the interspecies restrictions. I disclose this information now because I believe it relates to the case." She sat down on the next machine bench and explained the theories developed in her sleepless hours.

"Ironic that they picked you for this assignment," Core observed, trying not to grunt.

"Irony is an incorrect term. I believe it is a test."

"A test of what?" he asked, stopping his arm reps and toweling off.

"I almost suspect someone on the High Council of assigning you to corrupt me."

"Assign me? I'd volunteer for that."

Laughing at her suddenly stern expression, he held up a hand. "I'm kidding, not flirting. You're theory's wrong, and a little ridiculous. My understanding is T'Pol never actually gave birth to any human children. One incident involved some kind of time-travel abnormality. The other because Terra Prime stole DNA from the Enterprise med-bay and artificially created a hybrid, and the child died in infancy. That Denobulan doctor, Phlox, only recently developed a way to successfully combine the gnomes. I doubt anyone's taken advantage of it."

"You _have_ been busy with my family history," she replied dryly. "However, I am not referring to a human breeding analysis. Ambassador Savian was appointed to the Federation Council by First Minister T'Pau and now he has come under scrutiny. I am one of the First Minister's protégés. If I can be corrupted into an interspecies relationship, it gives Minister Kilor more reason to call for a vote of no confidence."

"Can you stop saying corrupted?" He stood from the machine. "I get it, mating with me could destroy Vulcan civilization as we know it."

His mockery drew her impatient expression. "Mister Stark, if I did have any desire to mate, you make them easy to restrain."

He grinned and sat back down on her bench, well within her personal boundary line. "Well then, Minister Kilor has underestimated your self-control. Hey, I'm sensing a Vulcan double standard here. Why is it okay for males to go native, but not females?"

Refusing to retreat from his proximity, she replied. "Technically, it is not acceptable for males either, just less enforced. Yes, admittedly, some gender barriers still exist, even in our culture."

"Barriers are made to be broken."

Unsure of his meaning, Ti'Mira stood and walked towards the women's locker room, stopping to look back. "Please shower, Mister Stark. We're due at the embassy security desk in thirty minutes, and you are remarkably pungent . . . even for a human."

She left him wondering if his humor is infective.

Federation Corvette-class Shenandoah chugged along at a mere 75,000 kilometers per second, roughly one-quarter sub-light speed, apparently the maximum velocity of the fleeing human-crewed space craft. Their low yield particle weapons barely tickled the ship's defense shield.

"Comm, are they still jamming us?" asked Captain Hardin.

"Aye, sir, they are," replied Ens. Archer Dawson, one of three additional personal assigned to the bridge during the alert status. Son of a famous Starfleet officer who served on the original NX-01 Enterprise under Jonathon Archer, he had a similar talent for languages. "I'm rotating through every subspace wave and no signal to Starfleet."

"The unknown vessel continues to radiate high frequency electronic disabling emissions, Captain," said Kolov. "Analysis indicates surveillance technology. It's possible they were spying on the Klingons."

"From nineteen light-years away?" Giana pondered aloud.

Another salvo of energy bolts barely registered on the Shenandoah's defense screens. Regulations were clear under the current situation. The captain has complete authority to act as he sees fit, including any means necessary to stop a fleeing suspect violating the Algeron Treaty and the Romulan ship has been _escaping_ for the last hour.

Hardin hated his constant hesitation and second guessing. What's bothering him? His crew waited for a response. Once again, Max, do something, anything.

"Jamal, how far to the Romulan border?"

"Nineteen days at our current velocity, Captain," answered Lt. Suresh.

"Not exactly a fast getaway," mused Hardin, standing from his chair to study the tactical screen and the black dart-shaped craft.

"Captain," suggested Giana, supporting tactical. "What if we back off and contact Starfleet after the Romulans are out of jamming range. We can quickly overtake them, again."

"I don't like it," Harding mumbled.

"Sorry, sir."

"Not your idea, Lieutenant." He faced her with his head cocked in thought. "They're a long way from home, deep in our territory with a quarter C maximum. So, how did they get past the defense fleet?"

"The odds of them slipping past our sensor nets are incredibly high," Giana answered.

"Incredibly," the captain agreed. "And yet, here they are. I'd like to know how that happened."

Hardin returned to his seat, hating every second of the command process. Decisions of life and death so easily handled last year have become an unbearable burden. Federation protocol is clear. He can't let spies get away.

"Lieutenant Kolov, target their engine port, phasers at minimum."

"Ready, sir."

"Fire."

A white beam flashed from the forward weapon array, touching the Romulan ship and illuminating its defense screen. The charged-particle ray cut through the weak energy field and the power cell began trailing smoke in space.

"Engines are down, Captain," reported Kolov. "They are adrift."

"Keep weapons locked on her. Jamal, tractor beam. Let's bring them to a stop."

"Aye, sir," replied Suresh. "Target is grappled."

The Shenandoah suddenly jolted with more than a low-yield weapon, the explosive sound vibrating through her hull.

"Report!" shouted Hardin, holding to his chair.

"All stations answering no damage," Castillo complied.

"Shields at ninety-four percent," said Suresh.

"Weapons fire is not from the Romulan vessel," reported Kolov. "No other targets detected, sir."

"Onscreen." Multiple camera angles filled the giant main tactical viewer.

"There," pointed Castillo.

Four shocks of red energy erupted from seemingly empty space. It banged the Federation ship hard, forcing everyone to grab something for support.

"It's a cloaked ship," she said, running scans. "Heavily shielded, sensors cannot penetrate. Sir, the weapon signature matches Vulcan phase cannons."

"Defense shields down to eight-four," Suresh announced.

"Minor damage on deck three," reported Castillo.

"Helm," the captain ordered. "Release the tractor, evasive Alpha One - full impulse. Tactical, analyze the ion particle trial and auto-target pulse cannons along the enemy's calculated course on their next attack. Comm, can you open a channel to the attacker?"

"The new vessel is now jamming us, sir," replied Dawson. "I can try an open band."

"Do it." At his nod, Hardin demanded, "to the cloaked vessel, this is the USS Shenandoah - cease fire immediately."

Another energy salvo from their invisible attacker appeared on the screen. The Shenandoah pitched starboard under the impact, electronic equipment popping brilliant sparks. At the same moment, the tactical computer calculated a trajectory and returned fire attempting to predict the target's position. Three white particle beams flashed in a short, wide sweep from the Shannon's aft weapons.

"Negative hits," said Kolov. "Targeting is compensating. All weapons ready, sir."

"Shields at sixty-two," Suresh called out, steering the Shannon thru programmed battle maneuvers.

Captain," said Castillo. "I'm picking up the same Vulcan ion signature as the anomaly we detected in Earth orbit. It's identical."

"Hull polarization fluctuating," announced Cmdr. Quinn from his aft station.

The ship shuttered under another barrage of blasting energy and smoke thickened on the bridge as environmental systems began failing to clear the air. Again, the Shannon's AI automatically returned a high-energy particle beam fire.

"Negative contact," shouted Kolov. "Resetting full spread on all ports."

"Shields at forty-nine," Suresh yelled over the crackling sound of shorting relays.

"Micro-fractures forming on hull section A24," bellowed Kirk Richards, a systems tech. "We're getting hammered, Captain."

"Easy, chief," Hardin replied by reflex, his own panic slowly bubbling inside. Breath short, he swallowed, not now. "Comm," he ordered. "Get through to Starfleet, I don't care how. Weapons, maximum yield on the next salvo."

It came immediately as more charges banged against the decaying defense shields. This time, Katrina Kolov employed all forward and aft dorsal weapons in a flashing net across the enemy's projected flight path. "Negative hits," she announced.

"Shields at thirty-six," Suresh announced.

"Why would Vulcans attack us?" demanded Archer Dawson.

"Vulcans do not have cloaking technology, Ensign," replied Kolov.

"It's possible they're Romulans using a Vulcan ship," offered Castillo.

"Hard starboard, now!" The captain ordered instinctively. Three photonic torpedoes appeared from empty space and streaked toward the viewscreen.

"Countermeasures!"

The Shannon ejected 15 decoys emitting identical power signatures into the path of the fast approaching missiles. Undeceived, one of the high-energy projectiles hit the weakened shields over the aft hull section. Concussions rocked the bridge hard, popping already bypassed circuit systems and dimming the lights.

In auto-response, Shenandoah's advanced multiple weapon targeting systems finally analyzed the enemy's evasive pattern and launched a full spread of maximum yield phasers. Shields sparkled and flashed under the heavy strafing, and for a moment the attacking vessel became visible, assuring they returned a little pain.

Damage reports rolled in; Shenandoah's shields down to twenty-six percent, all decks marking extensive damage and minor injuries, stress cracks forming on the ventral hull plating right over a plasma conduit. Two, three more shots at best and this time Hardin loses his life along with his command.

"Captain," his chief engineer called from behind the command chair. "I recommend we withdraw immediately. The warp coil is vulnerable."

"Helm, get us out of here, head for the nearest Federation anything."

Jamal entered commands and tapped the engage drive. "Sir," he said, voice rising. "Helm's not responding to warp, impulse only."

"Ty?" asked Hardin over his shoulder.

"We just lost field integrity."

"How long?"

Quinn punched his console panel one last time and stood, calm and controlled. "I don't have enough data yet, captain, but we'll have a core breach if we keep getting pounded like this."

Quinn rushed off the bridge declaring the engine room his destination.

"Status report," the captain demanded. Kolov updated their condition; no injuries reported, minor damage on C deck, and shields now at fifty percent and rising.

Max Hardin argued in contradiction of reality. This can't be happening again. Ten years in command of the troop transport ship USS Gibraltar, they were attacked by Orion raiders while traveling through a remote section of Andorian space. The board of inquiry speculated the pirates mistook his transponder signal for a weakly armed Starfleet supply ship and fired a Magnetic Neutron Pulse to disable the entire electronics package. Defense shields deflected most of the burst, but Hardin found himself without a targeting sensor array. The battle lasted twenty minutes of eternity and once the shields failed, his ship suffered major damage, killing 7 out of the 300 MACO troopers onboard.

Luckily, several Andorian battle cruisers arrived in time to chase away the bandits and save the rest of his charges. It took nearly a year before he sat in command again, cleared of any responsibility. In fact, they gave him a commendation for valiant service in the face of overwhelming odds. He lost his ship due to an unexpected new weapon wielded by Orion Syndicate pirates, the very reason why Talon-class corvettes like the Shannon exist.

So far, there were no injuries reported, but he was about to lose his ship and crew to a cowardly Vulcan hiding behind a cloak.

"Sir," alerted Kolov, placing a jumping, static image on the viewer. A vessel not much larger than the Shenandoah de-cloaked above the Romulan spy ship 300,000 kilometers away.

"Can we scan that vessel?" asked Hardin.

"Sensors are offline, sir," replied Castillo.

"Of course they are."

"It doesn't look like a Romulan warbird, captain," offered Suresh.

"It doesn't look Vulcan, either," responded Kolov. "Except for the energy signatures."

"Is it in weapons range?"

Kolov glance up from her board. "Yes sir, but targeting won't lock. I think I can hit them both with a full spread of torpedoes at maximum yield."

Hardin nodded thoughtfully. What are you going to do, Max? With only impulse drive, they were essentially dead in the water, to coin an ancient nautical term. The enemy ship has ceased its attack. Should he risk reengaging at this point and place his crew in mortal danger? No one has died, yet. What would Admiral Waters expect him to do?

The broken, jumpy image onscreen revealed the attacking vessel emitting a green tractor beam and slowly drawing the Romulan spy ship into her open cargo bay.

"Captain," alerted Kolov. "Their shields must be down."

"Hold your fire, Lieutenant." Hardin punched his armrest console. "Engine room, what's our warp status?"

" _Ten minutes, captain_ ," replied Quinn over the speaker.

"Do we have impulse?"

" _Aye sir, at your command_."

"Mister Suresh, set a course for Star Base One, maximum speed."

The lieutenant's hands moved over his console. "Course laid in for SB One."

"Engage," ordered Hardin. With inertial dampeners at minimum levels, everyone swayed at the sudden acceleration. The flickering enemy ships quickly dwindled into tiny specks among the billions of stars.

Hardin felt an explanation was necessary. "I'm not risking the lives of my crew on a lucky shot. It's more important that Starfleet receives a full report of a cloaked marauder assisting a Romulan spy vessel instead of what they find picking through our debris field. Mister Dawson, when you get through, send the entire record on a secured channel. Better compress it into a micro-burst transmission in case they decided to follow us. Which means we need our targeting sensors back online, Katrina."

Already on her knees pulling fried data coils out of an open a panel, Lt. Kolov shouted an affirmative without pausing. Giana stood over her, running diagnostic repairs and rerouting command systems on her padd while coordinating with Chief Verholtz in the CCC. Some of the crew hated running away, others were relieved, but all knew the captain had a point. How do you fight an enemy with cloaking technology that defeats the most advanced sensors in the Federation fleet?

Best not confuse stupidity for bravery, their first duty is to notify Starfleet Command of possible Vulcan treachery.

The Vulcan Embassy, a five-story structure within the massive Federation HQ compound, sported two landing platforms on the securely guarded rooftop. At 0700 hours, the transporter shimmered and Ti'Mira and Stark appeared on the security level. They rode the platform elevator down to the council level escorted by two stern embassy guards. Their conversation remained strictly official until they reached a long corridor embellished in unique Vulcan style and their chaperons fell a few meters behind.

"Have you familiarized yourself with the sub-ambassador's files?" she asked.

"Absolutely. I've had four days to go over it." Core lowered his voice. "Although you could have spent the wee hours of the morning debriefing instead of kicking my ass."

"Did I deprive you of sleep, Stark? If you feel incapable of performing your duties, I can have you relieved."

"That won't be necessary, boss. I'm ready to go, but the next time you get insomnia, try meditation."

Her side glance stopped them in front of a black metal security door where both agents submitted to retina scanners and biometric testing. Inside, more invasive checks forced them to relinquish all weapons and electronics while a full body scan left no nooks un-crannied. Two Vulcans guarded the last checkpoint into the embassy council rooms. Both men wore the khaki uniforms of the V'Shar Security Directorate and carried disrupter weapons at ready.

"Thanks for letting us keep our clothes, by the way." Core grinned at their gloomy reaction and passing into another hallway, his smile dropped when he noticed her expression. "What? That was not insulting."

"Just insolent," Ti'Mira pointed out.

He rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, insolent; a word denoting improper respect toward one's superiors. Are we back to that again?"

"A word that denotes improper respect toward anyone, be they Vulcan or Terran. I have watched you do it to your own people. It has a certain bravado charm, in the right context. I'm hoping it works on the sub-ambassador."

"Um, thanks?"

The last metal door slid open at their approach.

An early light fog lingered over Langton Boulevard, partially obscuring her view of the Talisman escort agency across the boulevard. The amber street lamps helped identify any customers looking for a little morning glory. So far, nobody entered the 24-hour sleaze-boutique. The social stigma of retail orgasm still grips the public's sense of morality and not many took advantage of the city's recently legalized nookie market.

Jax Bui didn't care about social or political ramifications, just the criminal, and the murder of two professional escorts might provide her with opportunity. Working the celeb gossip angle, she cultivated a number of call girls throughout the city, supplying inside dope for monetary credit exchange. So long as names remain confidential, any pillow talk is fair game. The rest can be implied by her faithful readers.

One dead girl is an easy cover-up, but two brings whispers of conspiracy circulating among the trade. Technically, the escorts are federal employees and connecting their deaths to a highly-placed Vulcan will considerably sweeten her reporter chops, and her credit rates. Not to mention a chance to ascend the mired pit of natter tags and hooker trades. She practically offered her editor a blow-job to greenlight a proposed _exposé_ on the real Vulcan agenda in this fledgling Federation. On an issue this sensitive, she needed more than suspicion and rumor to file an article, and last night she scored.

Jax spent most of her life chasing a writer's dreams, even failing at romance novelist, the easiest sex-fest to publish. However, the rags pay her bills so she produced the necessary dirt. Her short, black hair and big, sparkling Vietnamese eyes falsely projected a clueless innocence, a lamb among wolves. She learned how to play her _façade naïve_ profitably. People talk freely when they think their listener is labeled, especially the call girls who yapped casually among themselves about their client's particular fancies.

It paid the bills, and now her journalistic nose smelled a real story, something that could break big, provided she's willing to risk everything on a dangerous path. The First Amendment won't protect her if she's caught nosing around an official Federation investigation. Gossip said that Lavender from Talisman had an appointment with an unusual customer, rumored to be a Vulcan. The last time it turned out to be an Andorian freighter captain, hardly the golden credit bump. She almost blew it off, especially after her source at the hotel heard nothing about it.

Jax waited on a bench across the street from the Talisman until Lavender exited her car. As she began to cross, she saw two people stop Lavender on the sidewalk. Jax quickly changed direction to a better vantage point. The images on her cellcom were a bit dark, taken from about ten meters away. One photo gave her the partial face of a young, very pale woman in shadow, and the other of an Andorian male standing a few meters away. The strange pair waited until Lavender went inside the secured building, denying Jax a chance to interview her. The whole thing tingled her journalistic senses.

Jax spent the entire night researching the media database for Andorians and strange pale women, found nothing except the Aenar, of course. Still, and she had other leads to pursuit. A source from a different agency supplied the name of a call girl reportedly used by the same Vulcan last month. She planned to contact her later this morning. After that, she'll follow up on a tip from a skaghead with ties to Terra Prime. They usually have good info, for a steep price, but first she wanted that delayed chat with Lavender.

The graveyard sex-shift concluded, Alicia Hanson came down the agency steps at 8 AM and walked left on Fremont, nose buried in her cellcom. Without the garish wig and makeup, her limp blond hair hung listlessly over a cheeks pinked by the cold winter air. Only the least discerning customers would pay her price now.

Jax attached a small encryption unit to her cell and activated the scrambling sequence. Holding it in her hand, she crossed the street and intersected with the girl near the corner. The traffic light held long enough for her jacking device to subvert the firewalls and lock onto the escort's signal. Untraceable access to text-messaging is how Jax gets most of her inside info, and terribly illegal.

"Lavender, right?" she asked, quiet and friendly while they waited for the light.

The girl instantly became suspicious.

"I'm Jax," she continued. "A friend of Maria over at Brimstone."

The mistrust loosened. "Oh, are you one of us?"

At 22, the Asian reporter held a youthful, simple beauty, a button-cuteness, as one hooker described it. A money-making trait in the business; exotic features under thin, natural brows and wide forehead. Her straight nose, inherited from French ancestry, rested over a full, generous smile and sculpted chin. Her outfit reflected today's generation of brightly-colored vinyl jacket and black shorts over black stockings, finished with docking boots. Jax may frown upon the work these girls do, but many men have supplied newsworthy information from the pillow next to hers. How was that any different?

"I guess I am, kind of" she answered honestly. The light turned green and they stepped into the crosswalk. "Actually, Maria said you might be able to help me."

"Are you looking for work?"

"No, I'm working," Jax replied simply. "I wanted to talk to you about the Vulcan."

They stopped on the opposite corner. "You know we can't talk about clients."

"See, that's the thing," she shyly lied. "He's my client tonight, and well, I don't know what to expect." The hooker's non-committal shrug gave Jax an opening. "Was it horrible?"

Lavender repeated the shrug. "Different."

And Jax had confirmation. Now, she just needed info on last night's strange meeting on the sidewalk. Her blood was literally pumping at the idea of uncovering some Vulcan/Andorian conspiracy. "What are you doing right now? Can I buy you a cup of caff?"

He felt like a bug, and Savian's glare pinned him to a display of lesser lifeforms – which he looked upon with aloof disappointment. It only encouraged Stark.

"Ambassador, you can understand the Council's concern. It's true, you've broken no laws – Vulcan, human or otherwise, and personally, I'm on your side. Men are men, no matter what the race. We should stick together."

The hypocritical Vulcan flicked a distasteful eye as Stark continued. "The problem is your complete lack of discretion about four hookers, so far, and the Council feels your behavior reflects poorly on the entire Federation Assembly, especially the Vulcan delegation. At least, that's what my boss tells me and she should know. As far as I'm concerned, what you do for fun is your own business."

"I appreciate your support, Agent Stark," he said, expertly concealing any trace of Vulcan sarcasm. Vastly experienced in emotional suppression, Savian's gaze never wavered from pure serenity. "However, since it is agreed that my personal actions do not violate any laws, we can terminate this interview here."

"Sorry, Sub-Ambassador," replied Core, purposely using the improper title. In addressing a member of the council, they are always referred as Ambassador, not by their official position on the board. "Federation Addendum 2A, Section 32 on the forming of the OFS allows me a certain latitude in questioning foreign dignitaries during the course of an investigation. You should know, you voted for it."

"Quite so, special agent," the Vulcan replied. "Is there something more?"

"I'm curious. Someone of your status could easily take more precaution concerning your personal activities, but scheduling escorts through your aide and meeting every three days in a public hotel known to accommodate hookers? It's almost as if you wanted to be discovered. Are you bragging, sir? Because I'm impressed."

Savian remained silent, his gaze nonresponsive. It still felt like an admission to Stark.

"I'm just a simple human," he continued. "But even I know your behavior will have an adverse effect on First Minister T'Pau's leadership. Didn't she appoint you to the Council, Sub-Ambassador?"

Savian released a deep breath of slow draining patience. "She did, and let us reexamine the word personal, special agent. It means my life away from the assembly is mine to live. If the First Minister wishes to replace me, I am at her bidding. It is as simple as that. So, if there is nothing further, I have important duties to attend this morning."

Savian stood from his gray stone desk in dismissal. It was time to drop the bomb.

"Tell me about the box, Ambassador."

"Box?" asked Savian, a little too casually. Not the complete shattering of his diplomatic veneer, but definitely a crack.

"Box," Stark repeated. "Silver metal, intricate etchings, about so big?" He held up a thumb and finger. "You received it from Alicia Hanson, also known as Lavender, your guest from last night – any of this hard to recall? I can understand that. Lavender sure had a hard time remembering anything about it."

"I have no knowledge of any box," Savian replied stiffly, reseating himself.

"Does the V'Shar have knowledge of the box, or boxes?"

Always the diplomatic tactician, Savian remained impassive at the veiled threat and framed his words carefully. "The Security Directorate does not inform me of their investigations, special agent."

"No, of course not. You're married aren't you, Ambassador?"

His non sequitur provoked a tilting head and further silence. Stark studied him, realizing the difficulty of trying to keep a Vulcan of his experience off-balance. Tongue in cheek, he framed his next line of attack.

"You're running a political game here. One that seems more important than your reputation or its adverse effect on the Federation Council and Vulcan leadership. That sounds like extremism, Ambassador. Are you working for Minister Kilor against this alliance?" His voice rising, Core leaned forward, unable to restrain his human side. "Two girls are dead, two girls you ordered, murdered outside your hotel just three days apart and you just call for another, like a pizza. It's lucky we made sure Lavender survived to tell us about the shiny metal box, and oddly enough, that memory was nearly wiped from her mind. Someone went through a lot of trouble scrubbing it from her worthless human brain, a somewhat major violation of the Federation Charter. Now, the OFS is working on what happened there, but it does suggest the box is a part of your little subterfuge."

Savian remained unfazed. "No need to get emotional. Are there any more questions, special agent . . . Stark, is it?"

Core wanted to punch him in the nose. "You don't want us unraveling this crime, Ambassador, considering Vulcan's position between Andoria and Tellar. Let us help you fix it, like humans have done for nearly fifty years."

"Perhaps the girl was implanted with a false memory," the Ambassador replied. "Did you think of that?"

"Rest assured, _Sub_ -Ambassador," he leaned back in his chair in relaxed confidence. "I will find out what you're hiding."

"I trust you will, _special_ agent. Now, if you'll excuse me?" Savian waved toward the door.

With a 'not-quite-yet' smile, Core held up a small device and played the recording of Savian's encounter with Lavender filled the room.

The screeching and hissing of automated machinery agonized his sensitive ears even through protectors. S'tiran strode along a narrow catwalk spanning the main starship production factory within a barren, uninhabited planetoid circling a small red dwarf, Rektolan Minor, just inside Romulan neutral zone. The incredible excavation burrowed deep beneath the surface and housed a secret manufacturing facility transforming raw material into fabricated alloy elements, from bulkheads to optic conduits – designed for the new Romulan warbirds. The massive hulls of ships in different stages of completion lined the floor below, a distracting activity he ignored crossing the wide gap. The facility has nearly served his purpose.

S'tiran stepped quickly across the huge expanse, the unexpected noise frequencies played havoc with his senses. Low power lighting and the quick, erratic movements of automation in the added to his disorientation. Trailing behind on the long walkway were two centurions, dark and foreboding in scaled black uniforms, escorting him in a courtesy of respect to the Legate's office. There seems to be a production problem and S'tiran wanted to know why.

The harsh noise ceased as they passed into a pneumatically-sealed section of the facility, an irritation guaranteed to reflect on Kantda, the Romulan in charge. S'tiran has no toleration for delays. He brought them the key to reclaiming their lost honor and even as an outsider, the Senate has given him full authority over production – with the expected inclusion of a Prefect to look after their interests. Trailing behind his two guards, the Romulan watchdog was not a problem, unlike a ship that fails to remain undetected.

The hallway of dull gray metal arches ended at guarded doors. Tight security for a facility that violates the Earth/Romulan treaty established after the Battle of Cheron when the war nearly destroyed both sides. The climate of conquest changed within the senate and the dictating leadership members were executed, replaced by a more moderate governing body. That treaty occurred forty Earth years ago, shortly after his own birth on that very planet.

Political climates have a tendency to cycle, especially now that the Romulans possess his stolen technology. S'tiran knew they weren't gearing up for another war, not right away. A stalemate with a single planet is nothing compared to fighting the combined fleet of the United Federation of Planets. First, they wanted an invisible fleet of Warp 8 battlecruisers.

As facility administrator, Kantda remained seated as he entered the spacious office. Because heavy, insulated windows overlooking the gigantic factory eliminated the irritating noise, S'tiran allowed the lapse in respect. The elder Romulan, v-shaped brow ridge prominent above his black eyes, had no understanding of his error. His aide, Cmdr. Khunan, appeared less comfortable with the slight.

"Tell me you have fixed the problem, Legate."

His voice low and penetrating, S'tiran stood over Kantda's desk and watched the man purposely finish inputting data before acknowledging his presence. A response he has come to expect from his very distant cousins. They work with Vulcans when it served their purpose as it does now, though most would agree he was unlike any of his parent race. As one of their physicians remarked, without the genetic proof, his blue eyes might cause suspicion. An extremely rare anomaly and Romulans were not a trusting species. S'tiran made sure they believed every test provided evidence of his Vulcan purity.

The administrator finally deigned to respond, looking up from the data pad. "We only received the ship a few hours ago. It will take time to run the necessary diagnostics. You rushed production of a prototype, and I warned you that the adaptation to our technology requires more testing before it's placed into service."

"Legate," he calmly replied. "You are aware of the timetable. You had one job and now a Federation starship has a complete scan of the probe."

"You should have destroyed them," Kantda sneered.

Anger boiled deep within S'tiran's primal core, ancient cultural emotions confined and suppressed for a thousand years. Surprisingly, his control derived from another source.

"In order to provide stealth," he began. "You drew power from the Topah's defense shields. Their sensors predicted my position and a single hit took out weapons guidance. The next might have been the warp reactor. I chose to rescue the probe from Starfleet possession, an unnecessary task had you done the work correctly by providing my ship with an independent cloaking energy source."

S'tiran intentionally allowed his anger to escape and took pleasure in doing so. His very un-Vulcan emotions telepathically mind-melded with the Legate and confusion crossed the old Romulan's dark brow. His distant gaze wandered around the Spartan gray room, unfocused until his aide, Cmdr. Khunan took notice and asked if he felt well. Kantda fixed his puzzlement on S'tiran. "What were we talking about?"

S'tiran turned his gaze on Khunan. "Commander, contact Senator Jakaari and tell him of the Legate's sudden illness. I'll be away on other business while my crew establishes an independent power source for the Topah's cloaking device. In the meantime, you will oversee corrections on the probe's long-range transmitters that Starfleet detected. Have it functioning properly within two solar rotations."

He walked out, and left the grim implications of failure gripping the dark office.

Ti'Mira entered the sublevel OFS headquarters. Core ignored her, filing a report on his interview, and Desta Allen peeked over the top of her screen from two desks away across the room. Their Vulcan commander stopped between them, hands clasped behind her back.

"I have just received a communique from Councilor Archer's office. It seems Ambassador Savian has filed a grievance against you and the Office of Federation Security. Of course as your superior officer, he also felt it necessary to include me."

"He sure didn't waste any time." Core straightened from his monitor. "Major, you told me to be myself."

"I did," she agreed, sitting at the desk opposite of him, a grudging bit of respect in her dark eyes. "I'm not reprimanding you, captain. The fact that he 'didn't waste any time' suggests you successfully completed your assignment."

"I didn't break him. He gave us nothing."

"I expected nothing. However, he reacted to your interrogation. Something I had not thought possible."

"How is filing a complaint supposed to help us?" he asked doubtfully.

"The ambassador wants our investigation to end. It won't. I withdrew my recommendation of jurisdictional transfer and the Council has agreed. Of course, we are no longer allowed to . . . harass the ambassador."

Stark cocked his head. "But his staff is still fair game."

"Correct. If the ambassador is foolish enough to continue his activities, we now have full access to surveillance tech across the city."

"Major," Desta spoke up. "How are the other Vulcan delegates reacting to this situation?"

"Weren't you on duty last night, Ms. Allen?" she re-questioned, obliquely referring to her lack of sleep.

"Yes, ma'am. I slept a few hours, but was speaking with Ragnar for most of the night." She actually liked the argumentative little Tellarite, too.

"What's the word?" Stark asked.

"They arrived at Star Base One about an hour ago."

"Well, tell him there's no rush," he said. "Looks like we might be here awhile."

Ti'Mira turned her gaze on him. "Perhaps you can use some of that time briefing me on your Terra Prime contact tonight. Your report lacked any semblance of detail."

Core stopped typing. "Being from the V'Shar, I assumed you understood the idea behind confidential informants."

"Mister Stark," she replied, drawing a breath. "My second-in-command is about to meet with a member of an extremist organization. I want to know your plan."

"The usual; a dark alley behind storage bins after midnight." Her expression prompted a more serious response. "I contact her by dead drop Fourth at Talbot Street, an alley just north of the warehouse. I'll get there early, scout the area for counter-surveillance and wait for her to show up – exactly like my report says, and that's pretty much all I know. She's risking _her_ life, boss, which means doing it on her terms. Don't worry, I'm taking every precaution to ensure your second-in-command returns safely."

"What is her connection to Terra Prime?"

"She's a comm-runner. Terra Prime doesn't like using electronic transmissions, so they deliver encrypted data by hand. Sometimes she overhears things."

"Things that she tells you."

"Yes," he replied with a smirk, shutting off his computer. "That's what a CI does."

"For the amount of credit you requisitioned, I expect her information to be worthwhile."

"It should be. She's pretty good at valuing her intel."

"We'll see," Ti'Mira replied unconvinced. "On another topic, we have reason to believe Baran and Vrill's encounter with Miss Hanson on the street last night might have been observed."

Core perked up at the thought of Vrill screwing up. "Really? Do we know by whom?"

Desta answered. "SOP dictates we run continued surveillance on the possible vic, and this morning she was contacted by this person outside of the Talisman." She placed background information on the big screen and a video showing two women walking into in a cafe. "I checked through all camera footage from the area that night and discovered an infrared trace directed at our agents, indicating someone used a cellcom camera to take pictures."

"And now Miss Bui is chatting with our person of interest," Core noted.

"Baran and Vrill are interviewing the other escorts today," Ti'Mira said. "I need you to talk with this reporter and find out what Miss Hanson might have remembered from her contact with the Sub-Ambassador."

Captain Hardin lifted his brows at the padd. " _The_ Sean O'Malley?"

Quinn stood at a monitor control screen inside a small engineering alcove, never taking his eyes off the warp engine field stats. "It's all there, captain, Starfleet's highest achieving graduate in warp field technology and the youngest winner of the Cochrane Award. I hate to say it, but his theories makes me look like a garage mechanic."

"And he's here on SB One right now?"

"Yes sir, and he wants a look at our reactor."

"He's not with Starfleet anymore, and for a very good reason. I seriously doubt the admiral's going let him anywhere near it."

"Keep reading."

The _Shenandoah_ made berth at the space station after 18 hours of low warp and Quinn's team discovered severe damage to the antimatter injector system. Starfleet was sending the Hybrid engineering team from Earth, increasing their repair time by days, possibly longer. Deb Gant, stuck on another essential project, recommended the boy genius. Quinn contacted the star base commander and received the report currently in the captain's hand. O'Malley was back on the payroll and stuck out in the middle of nowhere as punishment.

"He's a maintenance officer here," Hardin commented. "Not even Starfleet, an independent contractor. It was probably this or prison. You do remember what happened, right?

His chief engineer took his eyes off the monitors and shrugged. "So he had some misadventures with a girl a couple of years ago."

"A girl?" Hardin chuckled. "Try both daughters of Admiral Yuri Renchevsken and some scam involving the warp-eight program."

"How bad could it have been? He's here, and Admiral Waters says it's your call."

The captain tilted his head reluctantly. "Ty, the Andorians specifically trained you as the hybrid engineer and your team is on the way as we speak. Do you trust someone that . . . untrustworthy to even look over the exhaust schematics?"

"Captain, if he can offer insight on this containment problem, I'll let him run the entire simulation. Besides," Quinn shot a quick grin over his shoulder. "I'd like to hear about the Renchevsken twins."

The apartment might be small, but it was hers . . . as long as she had credits, anyway. Jax rolled off her floor futon into a cross-leg position and hunched her shoulders a few times to loosen the knots. New furniture is not a high priority at the moment, a situation that could change after she submits her latest draft on the murdered escorts. A new slant took root while talking with Lavender, who seemed remarkably addle-brained, even for a hooker. Most of her answers basically came down to: 'I'm not sure, I can't remember."

Jax knew these weren't dodges, Lavender even questioned her own sanity. After about ten minutes of questions, the escort became frightened and said, "She doesn't want me talking about this." Then she jumped up and made a quick exit from the café, leaving Jax to form a new line of investigation. Did the Vulcan drug her to induce a memory loss of what perverted things happened in the alien's bed?

It all sounded remarkably tabloid, which was right in her backyard. So close to home, in fact, Jax felt cheated. She still didn't know the Vulcan's identity, nor if there's any connection with the dead girls. She wanted political scandal, not another seedy alien taking advantage of human stupidity and greed. Although the Vulcan angle was different. Superior my ass.

Jax climbed to her feet, scratched her hip under a pink tee shirt and walked towards the bathroom when a knock thumped her door. The security vid showed a ruggedly handsome man flashing a Federation badge to the lens. She turned and leaned against the door, forcing down her panic. The knock came again, this time with a muffled identification and request to open up. In the midst of confusion, her clarity broke through, finding a silver lining on the way to jail. Maybe she has a shot at the real story.

"Just a minute," Jax said aloud, running fingers through her straight hair and opened the door, suddenly realizing she wore no bra under the thin shirt. Oh well, he's definitely cute enough.

"Can I help you?"

"Corrigan Stark, Federation Security," he said, letting her read his stats. "And you are Jaqueline Bui."

"Yes," her dark eyes flicked back to his. "But you already know that. Is there something else I can help you with?"

His smiling nod established her as a smartass. "I understand you're working on a story for the Mediapolis blog."

"That's right, several in fact. Stories of lust and betrayal under the safe umbrella of freedom called The United Federation of Planets. Have you read my work?"

"I have." Core looked up and down the hallway. "Would you like to discuss this inside or would you rather the neighbors hear? Hey, maybe one of them can break the Vulcan story. Matters not to me."

"Are you saying you want to help me break the story?" As hope soared, she crossed her arms over a sudden case of perky breasts.

Core glanced away and groaned inwardly. Steady, old boy. Official business only, stick with the plan. He looked up, his charming grin completely unintentional. "We can talk about it."

Jax stepped back and waved him inside with a resigned expression.


	3. Chapter 3

Star Trek: Enemy Reborn

Chapter Three

BARAN OD-GAR and Sahron'Vrill ate lunch together in the subbasement headquarters. They sat opposite each other across a desk, neither speaking about the unsuccessful escort interviews. Vrill slurped protein noodles – long green threads of gooey soya that occasionally splashed sauce on his gray jacket. Baran broodingly sipped the only source of nourishment her body could tolerate; pureed raw beef in a glass, a rare and expensive meal. She hated the taste.

The pneumatic door slid open and Ti'Mira entered the office, wasting no time on preamble courtesy. "Are the interviews progressing well? Any new, or at least corroborating information concerning the box Miss Hanson claims to have passed to the Sub-Ambassador?"

Vrill flicked his ice blue eyes at the Udoran mesmerizer, passing the question to her. "No, Major," Baran answered. "It seems their memories are degrading over time. They barely recall meeting with the Sub-Ambassador at all. I cannot compel the information we need at this level of interrogation."

Ti'Mira tilted her head and Vrill clarified for her. "We need to probe deeper, Major, if we want to extract the information you require."

"Yes, Lieutenant, and I was weighing the risks of brain damage to Federation citizens. So their minds have been manipulated?"

"Without a doubt," Baran replied. "Major, I promise to stop at the first sign of distress, but it must happen now, before the memory is completely degraded."

Ti'Mira took a breath in thought. "No, release them. The fact that someone erased their memories is enough to proceed on the supposition of other existing boxes. Further probing will serve no purpose and risks far too much. Instead, we'll focus on tracking the boxes origin. I'll contact Councilman Archer's office for a warrant on the escort agencies in question. Vrill, go and find out how these boxes are being placed into the lockers. Take Desta and have her search for residual transporter energy, the most likely means of arrangement."

"And you'll be . . ?" Vrill asked, mildly disrespectful.

"Baran and I will be interviewing the Sub-Ambassador's aide, Talik."

The Andorian and Udoran both exchanged surprised glances.

"As Stark made clear," Ti'Mira explained. "The Federation Council agreed to your assignment on this team, and I believe the mere threat of mind control will encourage the Assistant Secretary to tell me everything I wish to know."

Now their exchanged glances carried a touch of respect.

SEAN O'MALLEY beamed onto one of the _Shenandoah_ 's transporter pad and found an escort of two ship's officers waiting outside in the hall. First, he noticed the woman about his same age, wearing the light blue dress of the science division, accenting her warm cinnamon skin. Her bright, brown eyes sparkled, a reaction he knew well. Then, he noticed her partner, an older guy with arms crossed sternly over his red Starfleet shirt and wearing a phasor pistol prominently displayed on his belt – a ship security officer. Sean grinned and shook his copper-brown head; seems one can never travel too far to escape infamy.

"Welcome aboard, then," he broke the awkward silence with his amiable brogue. "Commander Quinn is expectin' me, aye?"

"Sorry," the beautiful lieutenant finally spoke. "Welcome aboard. I'm Doctor Castillo, bioscience officer, and yes the commander is expecting you in engineering. This way, sir." She waved to her left.

"Sir, is it?" O'Malley smiled charmingly. "Well, after you then, Madam."

He hefted his bulky, silver equipment case and fell into step behind her along the dazzling white and blue trimmed passageway. "Ah, the _Shenandoah._ Fresh out of space dock. Still has that new starship smell."

"Twenty-seven days," she replied humored.

His attention had sensor-locked onto her swaying butt beneath the tight blue dress. "Well, she's lovely, she is. Breathtaking, in fact."

"Maybe you'll find time for a tour," Giana said and glanced over her shoulder.

"God, I hope so," he chuckled, completely busted.

No longer humored, she came to an abrupt stop at an intersection and spun on him. "Mister O'Malley, now that I've met you, I find it extremely difficult to believe you won the Cochrane."

"Tis true though," he replied with mock humility. "Just a wee lad dreaming the impossible."

"Right," she snorted in distain. "A wee lad who probably cheated somehow, because here you are at Star Base One. A supply dump in the middle of nowhere, scrubbing antimatter injectors instead of developing the next generation of warp engines. I've heard about your . . . sordid misadventures with the Admiral's daughters. I guess Karma _is_ a bitch."

"Ya might also ha' heard there are two sides to every story."

Ignoring his phony indignation, Giana touched the biometric screen and entered her code, unlocking a blue security door that led to a spiraling stairwell. "Crewman Clark will escort you from here."

Sean's stunned expression slowly transformed into a smile of pure joy. "Sure, an' I imagine your duties are required elsewhere, an important ship's doctor like yourself. You must have a wonderful bedside manner."

"Let's hope you never find out. Now, I'm expected on the bridge." Giana turned away and continued down the corridor.

"A pleasure meeting you, Doctor Castillo."

"It's all yours, O'Malley," she threw over her shoulder. "And stop watching my ass."

Sean tore his eyes away when Crewman Clark grunted menacingly and followed him down the spiraling steps below deck and into _Shenandoah_ 's bowels. The stairwell spilled into another tubular corridor that led to a single blue door marked, 'Engine Room.' Sean counted 14 labels of potential disaster plastered on the huge acrylic bulkhead; radiation, electrical, plasma and high-frequency magnetic discharge warning signs. He felt right at home.

The old security guy leaned past him and thumbed a biometric scanner on the wall before punching the code. The heavy protective door slid open and Sean entered the rather cramped compartment. The huge block of Andorian hybrid warp engine filled the room, a mass of static monitors of blinking colored lights and giant titanium conduits meshing like a string puzzle overhead. A number of red shirt teams were in various stages of diagnostics and repair.

"Sean O'Malley, I presume." A tall, muscular black man came around a circuit harness, removed thickly insolated work gloves and held out his hand. "Ty Quinn, chief engineer."

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Commander. I've studied your SIE thesis: Starfleet Defense Shields and the Andorian Graviton Particle Effect on Warp Bubble Management. Truly my opinion it shoulda won the Cochrane that year."

"If it weren't for Hang Le and her Warp Field Compression Theory," Quinn smiled. "Let's head for the control room."

"Led us to the warp seven engine, she did," Sean conceded, following Quinn through the narrow, crowded and noisy passage between engine block and bulkhead. "But your thesis became the first alien hybrid engine in galactic history, a collaboration of two spacefaring species twenty light years apart. The mind swims with possibilities."

Quinn led him up short metal ladder to the heart and brain of the ship; the Engineering Command Center staffed by two crewmembers manning the multiple computer displays. A short, brawny bald man cast a glance over his shoulder and spoke in a thick German accent. "Is this the famous Renchevsken Romeo, Kommandant?"

"All lies," Sean answered amiably.

"Sean O'Malley," the commander introduced. "Master Comptech Chief Gunner Reinhardt. Gunner wrote the entire program for the Arch-Dyne Mark 3."

" _Yah,_ _za halbe zucht_ ," the pug German commented and returned to his station monitors.

"The chief isn't happy with our new engine's temperament," Quinn clarified.

Sean chuckled. "The half-breed, that's a riot."

Reinhardt swiveled back and frowned. " _Sprechen sie Deutsch_?"

"Oh, you know, pick things up here an' there." O'Malley replied with measured nonchalance while carefully studying the equipment readouts. Quinn introduced the other man.

"And this is Lieutenant Takeo Kamada who wrote the ship's operational programming."

"With a lot of help," the small Japanese man replied humbly.

"A pleasure to meet ya both, to be sure. So, Commander," Sean beamed brightly at Quinn. "Before we take a look at your wee halbe zucht, tell me. Is Doctor Castillo dating anyone?"

"YOUR REPORT, Captain."

Core Stark slinked down the steps of Jaclyn Bui's apartment complex under the usual afternoon overcast sky that set everything in a sour mood. He tapped his comm to reply. "Miss Bui did indeed stumble upon our good agents questioning the victim outside her agency, and took photographs."

"Did you secure all material?" Ti'Mira asked.

"Yes, and I got her to see reason . . . after some persuasion."

"Excellent," she replied after a slight hesitation. "And you're confident of her silence?"

Stark triggered the door to his aerial unit and climbed inside, synchronizing the autopilot with Traffic Control. "I will file a complete report before my meeting later tonight. I'm sure you'll have questions about my tactics."

"Meaning?"

He sighed audibly over the vehicle rising and merging into the air lanes. "Meaning, you always have questions. Look, Major, I've been up for 20 hours and I need a clear head tonight. So, I hereby request permission for a short nap before then."

Her response time dragged on longer. "Yes, of course, I woke you early. I apologize. We'll speak later."

As his aircraft soared back to the Federation housing facility, Core felt guilty for the first time in a very long while and wished he had a reason for it.

"IS EVERYTHING okay?" Baran asked in a low voice. She and Ti'Mira stood in the transporter reception area outside the Archer Banquet Room on the tenth floor of the Federation Council building.

"Apparently, Stark is tired and irritable," Ti'Mira replied in her Federation Security uniform of black with blue side panels. "Humans."

Her blanket categorization made the Udoran smile beneath the thick brown hood of a Vulcan Syrannite robe that hid her unusual features. "They are a delightful blend of emotional turbulence," she said. "It must be baffling from a Vulcan perspective."

"Sometimes I feel the only race I truly understand is my own. It is the reason why I know Talik will arrive shortly for his lunch with Councilor Archer's personal assistant."

"The son of the former Grand President has been quite helpful in this investigation."

"I believe he wants the best for the alliance his father built," Ti'Mira explained. "Though I would think as a diplomat, his first goal would be to protect the Federation Council from internal destabilization."

"I know nothing of politics," Baran said. "The politicians on my world indentured my service to the Federation. You know my kind is very rare, and to be enslaved is almost a biological imperative for us."

"Ironic, given your ability. Who is your master?"

"Who do you think?" she replied coyly.

Ti'Mira raised her head as if connecting a puzzle piece. "That's why he sponsored you so aggressively to the Council."

"How do you not know this, Major?" she replied, leaning forward to lower her voice further. "The leaders on my world required a bonding ritual before allowing me off-planet, and I am commanded to obey Stark."

"The usual bureaucratic compartmentalization, and he wonders why I always have questions." She suddenly seemed concerned. "What exactly has he commanded?"

Baran shook her head and giggled in a very human fashion. "You may have noticed that while I frequently put my hands on Vrill, I never touch Core. That is because his first order was that I never touch him unless it is for medical assistance on the field of battle; his words. I think he is a little afraid of me."

"I doubt that," Ti'Mira replied with a lifted brow.

"His second order is that I will always follow _your_ commands, even over his own safety. You are the master here; his words again, and I agree."

Another unwelcome sensation was broken by the security desk officer calling across the huge Federation lobby. "Major, your subject has checked in for transport."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Please beam the others through first, as we discussed." She lowered her voice again as the transporter pad hummed to life. "I appreciate your telling me this, but perhaps it best you not speak to anyone else about . . . who is master of whom."

"Of course. Imagine Vrill's reaction."

Ti'Mira changed the subject. "Any questions about your part in this?"

"No, ma'am," Baran replied as three Vulcan representatives materialized. "You do not wish to risk a diplomatic incident by ordering Talik to headquarters for questioning, which is why we are here for a nice, informal conversation. Do not worry, Major, now you will see how good I am."

"You're ability relies on manipulating emotions, and the Vulcan mind is highly disciplined in emotional control. It's the reason why I require less pheromone inhibitor than the others. Please do nothing to harm him."

Baran promised and drifted to the farthest corner of the Transporter Center as the three Vulcan diplomats exited into the restaurant's reception area. Ti'Mira signaled the transporter officer to beam the Sub-Ambassador's assistant through, and after a few seconds, intercepted him coming down the platform steps wearing a _kaol_ robe of crimson pattern that indicated his position.

"Mister Talik, a moment of your time. I am Special Agent Ti'Mira of Federation Security." She presented her digital ID and applied her V'Shar knowledge on Vulcan interrogation, carefully watching his dark eyes.

"What is this about?" he asked impatiently. "I'm late for an important meeting."

"You're having lunch with another minor assistant," she bluntly corrected him. "I have a few questions that Federation Law requires you to answer. It should only take a moment."

"I repeat; what is this about?"

Ti'Mira immediately detected a subtle change in the middle-aged Vulcan's eyes. "If you'll step over here away from the transporter pads, my associate will explain."

HE SIPPED _thie sha,_ a popular Vulcan black tea that carried a certain genetic nostalgia in the rather bland flavor. Different species on a dozen planets each have their own blends of flavorful leaves ground to a pulp and soaked in extracting fluid, and he has discovered a preference for Earth's chamomile. Perhaps the one thing upon which his warring halves both agreed.

Wearing the robes of a Vulcan dignitary, one of hundreds in the San Francisco Federation building, he appropriately blended in with the Council staff members enjoying their lunch breaks at the Archer Lounge. A relaxed, tenth-floor restaurant environment of subtle hues and lighting, accessible through only the strictest protocols. Yet a simple computer file swap allowed S'tiran within sight of the transporter reception hall and feel annoyance at the major's unexpected persistence. Another box is due tomorrow night and he came to prepare the Sub-Ambassador's assistant for its delivery. With two already missing, retrieving this one was vital to his next.

They were too far away to hear, even with his hypersensitive ears, but something about the major's partner caught his interest, other than the oddity of a Syrannite monk involved in her investigation. The first individual he ever failed to link, and it almost felt as if his abilities were deliberately blocked. The heavy brown robes disguised the true species and gender, but his impression was female. Frustrated at his lack of control over the interrogation, S'tiran now found Ti'Mira's interference approaching its limits. He can't harm her, but perhaps a distraction is necessary.

ACCORDING TO his suit's sensor, radiation levels were nearing the saturation point. O'Malley focused on recalibrating the injector balance in Dilithium Exchange Chamber #2. During his diagnostic assessment, he found several atomic compounds synthesizing below an efficient decay ratio for the warp reactor to process the antimatter energy. Not the main problem with the new engine, but definitely a contributing factor.

On his knees and squeezed inside the small, sealed chamber, Sean worked with tools of his own design – rerouting, adjusting and balancing the delicate dance of nuclear forces.

"Time's up, O'Malley. Out."

"Almost done, Doctor," he replied absently, concentrating on his final computations and settings.

Giana leaned forward on her the bridge console, monitoring the medical condition of an unwanted mechanic performing dangerous work aboard her starship, and hoping he doesn't blow them all up. "You're at a hundred Rems and climbing."

"That's why they invented potassium deionization, luv."

"There's no cure for dead," the young medical replied scornfully. "Now get out of there!"

"Thirty seconds more, though I do appreciate your concern. Commander, once I set this final solution and seal the compartment, you'll need to run a pulse test."

"Acknowledged," answered Quinn from Engineering Control. "Gunner will initiate the sequence at your word."

Sean pulled himself out of the dilithium chamber, leaned back into the small, enclosed access passage surrounding the huge warp reactor and sealed the mixing chamber panel. "Go ahead, Commander," he said, exiting into the decontamination room and sealing the warp engine compartment behind him.

In the control room above, Chief Reinhardt initiated the test-pulse sequence – a protocol to ensure a proper injector alignment and pressure from a cold start without actually converting the hybrid antimatter into warp energy. Flashing amber lights warned the engineering team to closely monitor their stations during the firing cycle.

Sean stood under the timed decontamination sprayer, ears tuned to the _Shenandoah_ 's inner pulse. After a lifetime of working next to giant atomic sunlamps, he welcomed the familiar tingly sensation washing over his naked body. His musings brought the good Doctor Castillo to mind, but those inappropriate thoughts abruptly ended when he sensed a problem just seconds before the amber lights switched to red warbling sirens.

He immediately cursed himself for the lack of foresight. They were still attached to Star Base One's auxiliary power and part of it has bled into the pulse sequence. Stuck in an automated medical procedure, Sean prayed someone out there knew how to stop the ship from warping while still moored to the station.

Right then. Trusting no one's ability other than his own, he pried open a wall panel and quickly bypassed the sprayer system, releasing the decontamination room door. Sean darted out and ran for the control room without bothering to grab even a towel.

When he burst in naked, tension inside the booth prevented anyone from noticing right away – Quinn warning the captain of possible evacuation and Reinhardt hurling German curses at the half-breed engine. Giana Castillo, monitoring the ECC video feed from the bridge, only thought him a fool for not completing the radiation scrub. She trusted Commander Quinn's ability to contain the problem.

"Disconnect from the station's power, it's overloading the pulse sequence," Sean shouted over the warning alarm.

"We know," the commander responded. "It won't let us."

"Aye, their computer isn't recognizing your commands. _Entschuldigung, Herr Chef_."

O'Malley apologized to Reinhardt and leaned over the control station, breaking everyone's blissful ignorance with a full moon. "But I know Star Base One intimately. Mister Kamada, I'll be shunting the excess power across the ship's control systems. Ye might want to prepare for a nasty surge."

The Federation lieutenant began his own furious typing.

"Commander," Sean continued. "The moment we disconnect . . ."

"Emergency shutdown," finished Quinn.

"Aye Sir, an' timing will be everything."

SLEEP CAME WRAPPED in a cruel, binding sheet and nightmares of a collapsed building on a backwater planet near the Romulan Neutral Zone. Energy weapons burst overhead and he desperately tried to struggle free from the heavy rubble. Thick, choking dust prevented his calling out to her – as always.

Reality flickered and quickly dispelled the frequent dream. Core Stark opened his eyes on a dark room, rolled to a sitting position and checked the time. A deep breath and vigorous face rub soothed his buzzing nerves.

Meeting with the Terra Prime operative filled his thoughts while he showered and dressed. Clara Martin, a 63-year-old woman with a record of drug smuggling from way back in the day. Starfleet once rated her on the top ten list of illegal drug organizations worldwide, and 30 years spent in a maximum security lockdown cost her everything; wealth, family and friends. After her release, Terra Prime sought her expertise in old-school smuggling.

Sadly, her youngest daughter ran into trouble a year ago. A small misunderstanding that might have placed both of them in jeopardy with their Terra Prime bosses had Core not covered it and misdirected their ire. Now, he owns her. Just one of the many ways to gain a confidential informant. Sleeping with them sometimes works.

MACO spy training actually teaches a course in Romantic coercion, though it's definitely not in the V'Shar handbook. What does it matter? He got what Ti'Mira wanted and the reporter is now a cooperative CI. She'll rest comfortably knowing her planet's political structure will survive his vile corruption. Core stopped at the door and cleared his thoughts before leaving the Federation sleeping quarters.

No matter how many times he sees it at night, the new Golden Gate Bridge always drew his fascination. Stark flew across the Bay towards Sausalito where Clara switched the meeting location to the Golden Gate Park, a sudden change that definitely raised suspicion. He contacted Desta for satellite coverage over the area and to keep local law enforcement from spooking his informant. After she cleared the zone, he landed a half-klick from the GPS coordinates.

In an age of cloaking devices and mind manipulation, Core came prepared. The vehicle's storage contained the latest in counterintelligence tools and the nocturnal woodland conditions suggested multi-spectrum vision, enhanced audio filters and an antidetection package. With still an hour before the appointed time, he began a methodical scan of the meeting perimeter and tightened the circle in two passes. Nothing, on sensors anyway, and yet his skin tightened in that familiar sense of danger. It's been over a year since his last combat assignment, not counting the frequent dreams, and since then he's operated in dozens of similar situations like this.

His honed instincts urged Core to find cover behind a fallen tree and switched on his stealth field. Clara Martin appeared ten minutes later and he let her wait, wondering if her impatience might produce a reason for his itchiness.

He conceded the old girl's stamina, waiting nearly a half hour on a cold October night before finally turning to leave. No phone usage, nor did anyone emerge from the forest to contact her. Core dismissed his suspicions and made his presence known by whistle signal.

"Took your sweet time," Clara whispered, her image glowing a meter away. "I came all the way from Andromeda."

"I had to make sure you weren't followed."

She grunted. "That's almost insulting."

"You changed the venue last minute. Why?"

"Things are bad. Top TP brass is freaking out about something. I don't know what exactly, but it's got all their panties in a twist, so I changed the meet spot."

"Any rumors," Stark asked. "Maybe a guess at what going on?"

"Usually when they get this worked up, it's because they feel threatened and that could mean they'll be taking some kind of action. Other than that, I got no idea. Just a heads up."

"Okay," he said. "Anything more, let me know. Meanwhile, I'm looking for someone who's transporting unique objects of interest, possibly antiques of some kind."

"We don't deal in traceable Earth items like that, very few groups still do. It's mostly off-world stuff these days. Maybe if you describe the object, I can pinpoint the dealer."

"Just give me names and I'll look into it," he told her. The first name she listed was a known smuggler from the Orion Syndicate, the green bastards who recently took out a hit on Ti'Mira. "So, Terra Prime has a new policy of working closely with other alien separatists. Fairly opened minded for a racist group."

"Common goals, and all that."

"Sure," he replied. "As long as they don't sleep with their each other's daughters. How about the Vulcan faction under Minister Kilor? Do they have common goals, as well?"

"I imagine so," she replied vaguely.

"Tell me what you know."

"Not my area of space. I'm the smuggling department, remember? Now if you want to talk about missing antiquities, I'm your gal."

"In a minute. Which one of the Terra Prime bosses would most likely deal with the Vulcan reactionaries?"

"You know who," she replied. "Mal Randall."

Of course, his old nemesis.

FOR ALL ITS NOTORIETY, Terra Prime suffered from the same disease since the defeat of John Fredrick Paxton; financial anorexia. Raising money through illegal means has become problematic since the Federation solidified. It forced the organization to flee the galaxy for a less expensive and more lawless headquarters in the Andromeda Galaxy, only 2 ½ million light years from Earth. A two day journey at warp seven and still Starfleet's unofficial domain, but a massive cluster of nearly a trillion stars, twice the size of the Milky Way, is difficult to patrol.

Malcolm Randall flourished out here among the backward, primitive worlds filled with greedy and amoral races willing to buy, sell or steal from their own primal gods. Drugs, weapons, slave trafficking; if there's a market, Terra Prime now has a vested interest, and in order to keep the Terra Prime ideal pure they've operated under Randall's shell organization called Messiers 31 over the last decade. The days of weakness fade as newfound wealth continues to amass political power among the alien factions rallying against the Federation farce.

Old man Paxton's grandson, Robbie, continues objecting to Randall's plan of uniting the alien separatists, calling it 'an abomination against the bedrock of purity upon which stands Terra Prime.' Granddad certainly passed along his gift of blowhard platitudes. The fool actually wants to isolate Earth and give up all this financial opportunity. Mal's credo: 'the enemy of my enemy is my bitch.' Yet now, he feels the sting of betrayal.

Minister Kilor of the Vulcan High Council paid a small fortune for those ten storage containers. His "concerns" have increased since the first three mysteriously disappeared after reaching the hands of their puppet inside the Federation Council. Randall took immediate steps to intercept the next two deliveries himself and had both delivery mules killed as a warning. Kilor's people now accuse him of the theft and threaten political sanctions by the other crucial separatist groups of Andoria and Tellar.

As the Vulcan voice of logic in the war against interspecies breeding, Mal needed Kilor's support. That meant recovering the three missing boxes, a task requiring his personal attention. Time to visit the new Lunar mining colony where Terra Prime still has loyal followers, and where the last five storage boxes were hidden.

"TWO VISITS IN THE SAME DAY?" Sean O'Malley looked up from his Star Base One hospital bed. Giana Castillo came into the private room wearing the light blue jump suit of the station's medical staff and picked up a chart padd to check his progress. "Somethin' on your mind, Doctor."

She glared down with a small headshake. "Do you need to hear it again? Has the radiation affected your tiny brain more than the tests show? What you did was stupid and risky."

"Aye, ye gave me the same diagnosis an hour ago, and yet I get the feelin' the there's something you're not wanting to say. What is it, Doc? Am I dying? I'll never play me fiddle again?"

His ancient performance produced the tiniest grin as she ran through his current health stats and began touching a sensor prod to various parts of his body. "Doctor Kinjarta has authorized your release at 0800 tomorrow, barring any complications. If you're lucky, you even can still have kids with ten fingers and toes."

She punctuated her cruel jest by jabbing the probe near his crotch.

"Reassuring, that is," he nodded, resisting a strong urge to cover and protect.

Giana signaled for ophthalmologic scanner that dropped down from the ceiling. "Look into the lens," she said sternly, struggling with her next words. "I wanted to apologize for the some of the things I said before."

"Ah," he replied gravely. "So, it's you who's dying then. Worry not, you're forgiven, an' now ya can die in peace."

Ordering the device back into position overhead, she finished her notations and applied her best bedside manner, despite hating her medical oath and wanting to do him harm. "Commander Quinn's report says you saved us from a possible catastrophe."

"Hardly, luv. Quinn would have stopped it. I just knew the station's computer system better. At best, I saved you from hitchhiking home."

"Okay," she huffed. "First of all, do not call me 'luv.' Second; by stupidly discontinuing the decon protocols . . . you probably saved the _Shannon_. So, thank you for risking your life, I guess."

He's had worse apologies by uglier people. "I do appreciate the great effort you're making here," Sean met her eyes with his best charm. "So I'll simply say she's every bit worth saving an' I'd gladly do it again."

His romantic metaphor resulted in a bark of empty laughter and a "Nice try."

Tired of a losing battle, he sighed deeper into his pillow. "Is it your personal mission to make me suffer for nothing more than rumor?"

"Oh, just a rumor," she said with mock relief. "Top of your class, brilliant career and funding by three major engineering foundation awards, and here you are – with nothing." Her voice returned to its winter tones. "You obviously did something."

He raised his hands helplessly. "Aye, I pissed off an admiral, an' before you ask, nothing happened with either Sasha or Tasha. Oh, but try an' tell daddy that. It's all political if you ask me . . ." He stopped when she crossed her arms. "What? What is that look?"

"I just met you and I'm ready to believe daddy."

O'Malley expressed concession. "Fair enough. I come on strong, no doubt. It's funny actually. They were a lot like you; attracted yet wary, like a cute alien pet."

Giana couldn't stop her genuine laugh. "I'm not attracted to you."

Captain Hardin and Commander Quinn chose that moment to appear at the isolation ward door. "Sorry to interrupt," Hardin said.

"Not at all, sir," Castillo cleared her throat. "I'm just discussing his release and updating his chart. Would you like some privacy?"

"You're fine, we can talk while you work."

"Gentlemen," Sean greeted cautiously. "Not here to charge me damages, are ya."

Hardin shook his head. "No, I wanted to personally thank you for your efforts in saving my ship from the Starfleet scrap yards."

The lanky Irish engineer smiled warmly. "The _Shannon_ 's still working out the kinks, Captain. She's got real potential."

Giana rolled her eyes at his sudden familiarity with her ship – and then softened. Perhaps he has earned at least that right.

"Yes, she does," the captain nodded. "Well, things could have spun out of control without your station codes, and you did it bare-ass naked. I appreciate the extra effort."

Both Tyson and Giana controlled their grins while Sean took his jibe. Max Hardin focused on her. "That's right. It's your first time at Star Base One. I'm glad you remembered protocol and entered the medical registry."

"Yes, sir." She expected him to ask why she was checking Sean's vitals when Dr. Kinjarta is his attending physician. O'Malley waited, curious as well.

Instead, the captain let her off the hook and nodded proudly. "Very good, Doctor. Mister O'Malley, I'll be seeing you later, and thank you again. I'll be with the station commander," he told Quinn. "Find me when you're done here."

"I owe you drink, Sean," Quinn said after Hardin left the hospital room.

"I'll take a pint, sure. How's the engine?"

"Surprisingly, that little mishap with the cold-pulse test, and your mixture adjustments, led us to the antimatter injector solution." Quinn spent a few minutes explaining the engineering fixes and answering his questions. "We should be warping out of here in the next 24 hours."

"Well, there ya go, then, all your problems solved," Sean laced his fingers behind his head, smiled pointedly at Giana and looked back at Quinn. "Glad to be of assistance, Commander. Keep an eye on the performance curve. It'll be the first indicator of an imbalance, and let me know how _za halbe zucht_ does at max warp"

Now he's even using the chief's nickname for the hybrid power plant. Odd that she felt both disappointed and relieved at leaving tomorrow. Sean's the kind of damaged, self-destructive man that will break her heart.

"You can see for yourself," Quinn answered, and dread ran through Giana's veins. "I've talked to the captain about transferring you aboard as a temporary civilian contractor."

"You've got to be kidding," she said, whirling her head in stunned disbelief.

"At least until we're sure we have it right this time, if you're willing," Quinn continued. "Understand, the captain's not agreeing to anything until he personally interviews you, but saving his ship was a good start."

"We'll get along famously."

"You've got to be kidding," Giana repeated, begging for a punchline.

Sean beamed, seeing her pain. "No, luv. Dreams do come true."

She wanted to scream.

TI'MIRA AND DESTA worked quietly in their Federation basement headquarters filing reports, together yet separated by duty, each worried about Stark in their own way. Direct electronic communication risked a trace discovery by Terra Prime and left them with only satellite thermal imaging to watch his back. Ti'Mira arranged for an uncover Federation Security team posing as lovers in the park less than a kilometer away without his knowledge. The prudence of team leadership.

Relieved at hearing from Ragnar aboard the Shenandoah, Desta transcribed her day at five different escort agencies searching for any illegal transporter markers, and refusing each manager's offer of gainful employment. Insulting and flattering at the same time. Every one of the agencies confirmed indications of molecular diffusion scattered throughout the buildings, but none of them significant enough to leave residual traces of identifiable matter nor the transporter beam origin. Desta suspected someone purposely degenerated the evidence.

Ti'Mira agreed, but disliked having her investigation built on supposition. The interview with Talik provided much of the same guesswork on his involvement, his memory altered enough to avoid Baran's superficial probe. So far, the Udoran Mesmer's experience with this type of mind manipulation involved humans. A Vulcan memory has entirely different mnemonic cues due to the highly disciplined emotional control. Upon her first contact, Talik immediately revealed his deep distress of a haunting, shadowy figure, an emotional turmoil churning just beneath the surface. Baran feared the possibility of irreversible damage to his cortex and suggested they not proceed any further, especially in a public place without the ability to control his reaction.

Ti'Mira released the Sub-Ambassador's first assistant to join his human colleague in the dining room and they returned to base where Baran began her rest cycle.

The Udoran Mesmer lay in her stasis bed, the strange experience thrilling her in ways she never expected. She had immediately detected the memory alteration conflicting with Talik's highly disciplined Vulcan mind and noted the comparison with the human escorts easily adjusting their subconscious to fit the revised version of true events. She failed to mention the ease at which she tapped into the Vulcan's amorous emotions. He did maintain his exterior façade very well – no adoring expressions or dying declarations of love like Andorians and humans. Yet, he contained the same ability and depth for love as any species she has encountered. The assessment will go in her final report, but Baran wondered how the Major would accept that evaluation. Probably by pointing out that one Vulcan is not a complete study of an entire race.

As her bed reached temperature saturation, Baran allowed her excitement to abate and begin recharging her life force, remembering the true reason she ended the interrogation. Someone very close by, a psychic entity, attempted to control her mind. She successfully blocked it, and caught an interesting bit of bio-feedback. The culprit was a Vulcan, or at least part Vulcan. A mystery she felt compelled to solve on her own, despite risking the wrath of her true master.

CLARA MARTIN SHRUGGED MODESTLY. "With all the new alien tech increasing Earth's security net against off-world smuggling, the usual methods don't work anymore. So, I had to figure out something based on the system now in place. By putting contraband inside a non-reflective carbon casing and then wrapping it in garbage, a spaceship in low orbit can eject the package out their waste port. Planetary surveillance sats will record it burning up in the atmo like any other discarded space trash."

"While the carbon casing remains intact, hitting the ground on a predetermined trajectory and then collected by a retrieval team." Core Stark nodded his approval. "Pretty damned ingenious."

"I still got it," the older woman flirted.

"Absolutely you do," he flirted back onto his topic. "And so far, you haven't come across anything like I described?"

"Problem is, with security so tight these days it's easier to export off-planet than bring it in, and with items that small there's a hundred ways out. Incoming not so much anymore. I mean, I could probably do it."

"What about molecular transporters?" he asked.

"It can't be an orbital projection, no way past Alliance scanners. Any transfer beams have to be planetary based and carefully masked. Unless _uhaaa_ . . ."

Clara jerked and stiffened, her words slurring into a breathy gasp. Eyes bulging, she clutched her throat in the universal sign of choking and dropped to her knees, looking up at Core for help, her face a mask of desperation.

Stark stood unaware of her plight, every muscle in his body locked and his mind a bright light of horrendous pain. He toppled over like a plastic mannequin and welcomed the darkness of death.

END CH. 3


End file.
